


A pollen filled Heart and a chest of shotgun pellets

by Herbertholder



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Non-Binary Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Hanahaki Disease, Other, Pining, Post-Season/Series 02, Pre-Season/Series 03, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:29:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28300185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herbertholder/pseuds/Herbertholder
Summary: It has been a year.A year of neglecting worries and careless living. But now with the renewed Mid-season fight upon every horizon, Elliott must face his fears. In a sense, he doesn't really have a choice and cannot cower like before, because when he awakes to a throat of flower buds, his body has already planted its own ticking time bomb.
Relationships: Bloodhound/Mirage | Elliott Witt
Comments: 12
Kudos: 64





	1. Raspberry Ripple and Bloody Wine

Elliott Witt was young and he was bright, wild and stronger than ever. He was a competitor, famous for his personality, he had a fearlessly confident attitude and a cowardly sense of humour.

Elliott could shoot a pistol with one hand and throw grenades with the other, keeping focused amidst a graveyard of fallen competitors, he could hide in plain sight behind nothing but colorful particles of air. 

Right now, it didn't feel like those were high achievements. No particular reason, definitely not because Elliott was crouched over his bedside, hungover, and vomiting. He puffed out one last petal of dryness and stared down at the puddle, he was still coughing like his late grandfather had done. 

Elliott didn't remember coming home drunk, well, he didn't really remember coming home at all, but he definitely hadn't consumed any orchids lately, he knew this for a fact.

Elliott's throat burnt, his head banged and his bathroom floor of tiles was loitered with those sweet blossoms.

Waking up to a cup of Joe was always a pleasure, from the deep and enchanting smell; heavy and rich to the warping froth; reminding him of Renee Blasey and her portals. Elliott couldn't enjoy his coffee as much when he only felt like laying his head on the cold surface of the table. He let out a groan, as though somebody would appear through the crevices in his apartment walls. There was nobody to rub soothing circles into his back, he wondered about calling his mother and shrugged it off for later.

Elliott encouraged himself through a shower, you can do this, Witt! You can get through this day! It didn't help, but who was he to know that? And whistling, Elliott enjoyed the feeling of water on his skin, the sharp droplets twining around his chiseled structure with an ease along the gliding roads of soap.

Medications were, to put it, useless. They could clear a small portion of the headache, but unless Elliott planned on starting his year looking like a walking corpse, he couldn't take much. The ones in the orange packets were the best, but they only made him curse as he thought about Octavio of Silva Pharmaceuticals and how much his punches hurt.

Elliott sighed and brushed his hair back, taking long minutes to button the shirt of his tailored orange suit up. It was uncomfortable but flaunted his thick muscles of fanservice. He was sure to leave the first two undone, wearing a loose tie and a grin. He slammed his front door shut, locking it with a drawn out hum of his favourite song and walking down the staircase of his house, he left through the front of Paradise Lounge. 

You kill people for money! You can do this! He repeated again, and again, hands tapping the leather of the expensive hovercraft that drove him to the show. It swerved down roads at an average pace, winding past stoplights and towards the crowds of adorning fans. Elliott stopped at a light, full of undercover people ready to make him presentable. They fixed his tie loosely and played with his hair, moulding his face with a pasty makeover. 

The air inside the hovercraft was heavy, even with open windows of passing breeze that blew quickly when it started moving once again, Elliott's legs jogged in such nervous anticipation.

Mirage was a holographic trickster, but even he didn't have the tech to do anything more than clone himself and readjust some sizes. With a face of perfect makeup, he smiled at the crowds from across the lines of golden rope. At the fans, some teenagers screamed with their stylised hologram shirts, others were older and more controlled. this could be a once in a lifetime experience for them, or perhaps they came each season. Elliott had also felt that feeling of amazement once, the bubbling feeling in his ribs and the loudness that was unfamiliar in his ears. Now it was only a repetitive story.

The protocol was that when attractive interviewers asked questions, Elliott would answer with a smooth stride. If cameras pointed in his direction, they had come for a show. Finger-guns or a dance with a fresh hologram, he would even strike jokes from beneath his sleeves. 

Only, today, Elliott thought that the last thing he wanted was to put on a show. He wanted to watch television and eat ice cream and laugh and sleep. Still nauseous and tired, The electric feeling inside of his chest felt like much more than simple nerves. He felt heavy and longing, but at a loss towards whatever it could be.

The crowds screamed as more cars arrived, everyone was here. Through skies of nighttime accentuated by camera lights, from colorful street lamps; that shone as loudly as the ring, with Natalie's special touch. Elliott grinned haphazardly, speaking of the devil, or angel, or-

The reporters turned and Elliott was no longer a main focus.

Renee Blasey, With pale eyes only for the woman behind her, Natalie Paquette. She wore a dark dress with a leather jacket, and Natalie wore a softer skirt of teals. Pathfinder's center lit up with bright emoticons and Octavio Silva, colourised in greens was accompanied by a tightly suited Ajay Che in a pink miniskirt.

Full of bright colours, and every new arrival gained a louder cheer from fans around the court. 

Makoa Gibraltar struck poses, richly dark tattoos shining beneath his shirtsleeves and a his face lit up by warm wrinkles.

Anita Williams shouted enthusiastically to her audience, comfortable in her flannel and pants.

Bloodhound was the last to step out.

And oh, oh Bloodhound.

How they walked with a familiar stride. Elliott's eyes watched them the longest, watched as their shoes tapped through pavements and onto the carpets. A black coloration of their original tunics. Elliott turned around as a firm arm held his own, Renee Blasey had made her way over, Natalie was being Interviewed.

"Mirage, have you been taking care of yourself?" she greeted with a usually-stiff sense of worry. 

"Yuh'up," He pulled his shoulders backwards and his lips up into a falsely confident grin.

"Well, you don't look too bad," she shrugged her arms into a fold above her chest.

"Someone's just jealous, I know, I know, I can't blame you," he whistled in a friendly mock-flirt. Renee tutted with a flicker of her white irises. Yes, Elliott looked like a double squashed roadkill that had somehow ended up smeared on wet cement, but he still had his charming personality and attractive figure. At least Renee wasn't as cold as she had been when he arrived for his first competition, she tried to be nice, she didn't tell him that he looked shit.

They spoke for a while.

"I mean, it's been a great year if I say so myself. Though, there hasn't been much to do, the Lounge is going great, I guess. Ah, that's enough about me, how has it been for you?" And a sly grin was appearing because there had been interesting news. Renee reached into her pocket, pulling out a crumpled card and pushing it into Elliott's chest. "Oh! What's this? Completely on- un, unexpected!" They both laughed, resting on each-other. His best friend was getting married.

Soon enough, Natalie, the lucky woman, was finished. Elliott congratulated them both, she looked flustered and bowed her head in sincerity. they left him to find the chair with their names on them, probably to do couple-ey things and share the tiny confectionaries, get signing autographs and replying to edgy magazine comments. 

Octavio Silva passed a loud joke about any misplaced hair on Elliott's head, he laughed along, not ready for a fight with the guy. He ran around, never stayed for long and looked as shaggy as usual from up close. Bloodhound also passed, and they turned to face him, muck like they had done to any other champions in their path. He had watched how they nodded or bowed, their voice above a whisper as they spoke about their break. Now, they said his name as a greeting, Elliott laughed and rubbed his neck, asking Bloodhound about their Opinions on drinks, networks. He kept the conversation going for a while, until Bloodhound, with their mask on and their dark Raven bird, excused themselves. 

Elliott's stomach growled, he had only finished one glass of peach champagne, he went to the bathroom stalls and locked the door of his premium chamber.

He leaned over the toilet, things were coming up instead of down.

He heaved a few times before finally letting it out, a sharp feeling lingered below his ribcage, fat and muscles.

Small pieces of omelette, a putrid smell of stomach coffee and a swirl of blood that made it look like supermarket raspberry ripple. He usually upped some tummy blood after a night out, but since it didn't feel as bad as getting shot by a peacekeeper, he wouldn't question it. The weirder detail was, that deep inside the puddle of toilet water, floated a single daffodil. He thought that he had been hallucinating earlier, thought that it had been some lingering Fever, no way… 

What the fuck? he mouthed and wiped his face with tissue. For long moments, he watched it swim around in the bowl. It was real! Flowers, and this was real. Elliott winced and stood up, he leant on the stall door for support and groaned. 

He made sure to buy a mint before going out to find his seat.

The loud announcer blared from invisible speakers around every corner, even the bathrooms, they were painful and inescapable. Her voice was lighter than in the rounds of the apex games and had something that nearly felt like a personality. She cracked jokes.

She had announced the names of this year in champions, now, she pleasantly greeted the VIP members who sat in front. 

"I'm sure this year in tournaments will be more amazing than any before! now, for the teams-" he thought he had imagined the last line: 

"-these will be permanent throughout our four games."

He tousled in his seat, hands playing with the arms of his suit.

Team one- Gibraltar, Lifeline, Octane

Team three- Wattson, Caustic, Wraith

Team eight- Mirage, Pathfinder, Bloodhound

Oh.

This wasn't so bad. With a robot that somehow thought Elliott was his best friend, who would talk tactlessly about his own new metal girlfriends. It made his stomach croak, and then there was Bloodhound. He thought he would be able to forget his feelings, but they were still present and strong.

Elliott felt it, he felt the gurgling feeling again, he was stuck. 

A cough, just a cough. A bloody cough. 

"How are you doing, Elliott, my best friend!"

He wiped his hand down the inside of his trouser pocket and turned around with a grin, keep cool.

"It seems that we will be working together this year! Yay." The screen on Pathfinder's chest changed to a cheering face. Bloodhound didn't turn in their chair, halfway across the room and playing with a carved figure.

-

Elliott Witt, a new contender. He was finally at the top, a champion. 

The dropship smelt different, less like sweat and poor citizens looking for a way out; it smelt rich. The walls were padded with a soft grey and even one of the rooms was bigger than his childhood home. He felt like a fan, Wraith, wow, he would have to charm his way into her ranks and Gibraltar was intimidating even as his deep laugh echoed down the corridors. 

But Bloodhound. That was the first person he saw, first, the name on the bright billboards and only after, did he see the figure petting a bird. It curled into the touch and Elliott smiled as he watched them Coo it with foreign words. He had heard about them, god, everyone had, they were amazingly skilled at everything and somehow stayed humble. He felt his heart race, admirement, but it was also something else, something familiar. He nearly couldn't place it.

Elliott's entrance was loud, he flirted with Renee Blasey and was shut down with a physical punch to the gut. He huffed out a sigh and foolishly said the following:

"I dunno, you look stronger on camera." 

She frowned, he tried not to wince at those stern eyes. "We'll see about that, don't talk too soon," Gibraltar laughed again.

"Tis' new guy's got some confidence," Lifeline joked along.

He introduced himself and sat on the couch beside a grumpy old man, making sure that he grinned and didn't show a doubling chin. Making sure his hair wasn't in his face, that he looked attractive, but for who? Ah, perhaps there was some sort of romance to bloom within this dropship. 

The craft rustled and an empty glass on the table tipped over.

"This thing's safe- right?" He frowned, his stomach felt bad. They didn't have fancy ships in usual matches, only rusted airlifts.

"Don'cha worry that pretty face," Lifeline replied. She had insisted that as long as they weren't on camera, her name would be Ajay. Ajay, Makoa, that the stern Bangalore cleaning her guns was Anita and Wraith was Renee. 

"What about you?" He turned to Bloodhound, tilting his chin upwards. 

"You may call me Bloodhound," they said. It wasn't rude, it was a statement and was neutrally friendly if anything, so instead of distaste, it only made Elliott feel more interested. 

"That can't be your name, I mean, c'mon- it isn't your name, what?"

Bloodhound hummed, they nearly looked embarrassed, but Elliott knew all too well that it was just his deceiving mind. He didn't feel the issue was all that pressing, but he sure felt Renee's foot pressing into his.

He gasped at everyone, at Bloodhound and then pointed at the digging heel. "Oh my god! Are you seeing this! No way it's allowed, ow, ow, okay I get it!" He didn't get it. 

Elliott pouted as she stood back, arms crossed over her chest and something that looked like a grin-frown on her face.

"Well I won't be sparing you, then!" He retorted finally. The conversation had long since been forgotten and Bloodhound sat back as they fought, Elliott would wonder if they were in any way amused by his ego. 

The doors pried from the walls with a push and an unfamiliar announcer spoke calmly. Elliott was pulled into a team with Pathfinder and Gibraltar, he shouted a last wish as his legs left the force of the dropship floor. The view was amazing.

-

Elliott had zoned out. Perhaps it was the glass of champagne or maybe it was the asthmatic feeling that grew out of his ribs, but he had only watched. No more jokes, not successful, anyway and no more flirting with fans. The decision was made, Elliott Witt was not ready for this new season. He wasn't ready for a confident attitude, not for the pain that he felt every time a synthetic bullet punctured his skin, not for the nightmares. He thought that the only hope he had was sustaining a relationship, romance would usually outweigh the pains of life. He looked around, Ajay Che was laughing with an older couple, her parents, surely, and she looked happy. Gibraltar was off, he seemed stressed, looking for a past lover perhaps? at least Elliott wasn't the only one, Kinda- well. 

Elliott felt bad for the man, who would always share stories of his past boyfriend. Ajay was also one to linger, talking about the wars, it reminded Elliott of his brothers.

Padded shoes sounded closer than ever, he turned his head up at the familiar noise, a deep and slow tread.

Bloodhound was walking towards him.

Elliott, spaced out at the side of the dim theatre with his legs at either side of the chair, his back halfway down the rest and his beverage tucked between loose fingers. Romance, this was what Elliott had thought of when he was young. So unaware of how sour such adulthood would become, even with his flirting skills, with those one night stands, he had never experienced a childish romance. With a longing like Romance, he thought that the word was perfect in a way, a word that he couldn't pronounce and therefore couldn't accidentally spill all over Renee while half drunk in his bar. A word that he had memorized, and after thinking them so many times, it sounded poetic to some sort of degree. His life was the farthest from being poetic, he was perfect, so why was nothing working in his favour?

His disassociation was over, he winced back into a sober and sour reality, dim lights. He watched the boots, black and pointed with a heel, a loose curl obscured his view. They made loud thuds against the carpet floors, Elliott wondered if he would be paying for the spilling alcohol that dripped from his wrist.

 _Elliott, stay strong_ , it wasn't real, but it sure sounded so. Damn, he was starting to hear Bloodhound running around his head. Tired eyes didn't rise from the glimmering shoes, why did they always seem to know… everything! And they had no right. How did they know what he was feeling? Maybe they had been watching him all night, but that was barely possible, Elliott's eyes always following that distracted figure of theirs.

"Elliott," they nodded in salute, closing in.

"Yu-erp, that's me-" his throat cracked a quiet whine, stopping the retort before it could leave his lips.

"You don't seem well,"

"Thanks for noticing." Bloodhound hovered quietly for short seconds, nowhere to go now that the two were only a breath and kneel away. Bloodhound shifted sides with a muffled sigh.

"Not up for speaking?" Elliott pulled his lips up in fake thought, eyes glancing anywhere but them. "Not really, no."

They paused again.

"Well, I will pray that you feel better before we fight," it sounded nice. Not very meaningful, and Elliott didn't really believe in any Allfather shenanigans, but it was assuring. He coughed into his elbow and laughed at his own airy joke, maybe he should've said thank you, but that would only haunt him in the nighttime.

Bloodhound hummed and turned to leave, clearly, they would wait for Elliott to be healthy before giving him a good monologue, he couldn't blame them. He finally looked up, and he watched the charms of their mask jingle at every movement. They turned around to nod one final time at Elliott, his heartbeat getting faster, his stomach twisting, Elliott smiled at them. God, his brothers weren't joking when they called him a hopeless romantic, and that was in middle school. Hadn't he grown?

Elliott lived through the night. Well, not really alive, he felt out of it as he walked around and spoke to competitors. He took photos with fans who didn't seem to notice the fading makeup below his eyes and signed their wrists, chests, faces with an unreadable scribble. Lights died down, and he had long lost the weak track of Bloodhound, Renee, or even the lackluster interviewers.

A different driver greeted him in the same black car.

"Rough night?"

"Do yourself a favour and don't become famous," the elder driver chuckled, nearly as though he agreed.

-

Elliott Witt awoke in better circumstances the next day, he hadn't thrown up again after wrapping himself in blankets and calling it a night. A fighter, truly, as he fought the desire to push his face back into the pillow. The sun blared through blinds that were supposed to be closed and he groaned his way into a sitting position, feet cracking small pops as they flattened on the wooden floor of his apartment. maybe he was sick, he thought as he felt the pressure beneath his bare chest.

A shower, yes, and he sang while massaging shampoo into his scalp. Adorning old tattoos, he stepped out and smelt a whiff of freshness. Looking good, he played with his hair and watched the reflection in the mirror change as he struck poses. He would be hopeful for a date sometime soon, maybe the announcer woman wasn't as old as she sounded. Who was he joking, he was about to compete in a series of Bloodsports, Elliott grinned at the satire.

Bread popped from his toaster, burnt. He sat down.

His phone rang, he answered with a flick of his wrist.

"Hello Elliott!" He frowned into his mug. "Today we are meeting for practice, we will appreciate your presence!" He went to say something, you robots always want to meet up with the hot guys, hah! An asshole answer of the sorts, something flat because it was morning and the everlasting summer didn't help all that much. The phone died down, stupid robots who can't use cellular devices and he looked at the postcode on it's cracked screen. 


	2. Heights of Glass

Elliott witt, supersonic lovemaster and the face of the Apex games. He cracked great jokes, had a great beard and could strike a sick pose; He even flashed a chiseled build.

Elliott also had a slight problem with some mysterious sickness, a painful sickness at that, but as he listened to the dead end on his phone, he thought that getting to a doctor was the least of his problems.

He was not in a rush, not as he finished his drink. He took valuable minutes picking out a shirt and tied the laces of his expensive trainers with a huff, failing a couple of times before finally fitting the knots tightly.

The weather was dry and bright as he locked the Lounge door behind him, no winter, but it was still chilly, and he didn't ever really stop to wonder how thick breezes made their way through the tall walls of buildings and factories in Solace. The usual, as Tridents drove past him, sometimes stopping to get a second look at the Mirage and he grinned because it probably felt good for them. Down the roads, it was a familiar sight, he had come accustomed with the ever changing broadcasts and banners. Perfume advertisements on giant stores for liquid money, the glass panels of complexes nearly looked to be made of gold.

Elliott was on his way to a professional meeting, but between the Saturday loom and the friendly robot who had taken up leadership of their team, he couldn't say it felt like the usual ones. No lawyers, no businessmen and no heights that made him glad he wasn't scared of them.

Elliott was no stranger to Pathfinder's house, it was fancy and big and had far too many products that were completely useless to a metal box of wires. Flowers dawned the names of the fifth floor, MRVN, with Pathfinder' in brackets beside it, all written in precise handwriting. large windows opened towards the elevators and a tunnel led to another set of buildings. 

Elliott knocked a pattern on the white door, following edges of the icy blue patterns to their anticlimactic destinations.

"Good day, Elliott!" Pathfinder greeted within a wave, as he opened the door of such a pampered house. 

"Looking good down here." Elliott smiled, He enjoyed when people laughed at his jokes. Robots? Well, yeah. 

The interior was even more dashing than any memory that lasted inside of his human brain, with paintings on the walls and small chandeliers at every turn that lit up the rooms. The view was beautiful, of outland forests and watchlights. Deep clouds above tall monuments, no tacky billboards or water tanks. Why was only Elliott stuck with a small balance of money? It wasn't as though he had spent it all on Paradise lounge. He would earn it back! The business was beginning to bloom!

Pathfinder spoke and Elliott watched as those legs mechanically moved in a rhythmic speed, metallic footsteps echoing through the vast halls. Bloodhound had slipped his mind completely, but no longer, as he looked across the room. 

They sat and read a chart of gun statistics, their fingers softly clasping the ends of the pages and their legs neatly folded on one another. They definitely didn't suit the sleek silver-blue scheme of this house, not even the whole city, wearing warm tones of pale leather, Elliott's breath hitched at the sight and he shut his mouth around a signal to his brain that ordered him to choke on air. 

Bloodhound moved their head with intrigue.

"Morn goddt," they greeted calmly, striking a usually soft salute and their accent shined through a grating and natural voice. Elliott loved when they did their poses, and he grinned, his chest clenching in some grip. Their voice was always so weird with that mask on during the games, he had been surprised to find that it was nearly close to their natural tone. Elliott stretched an arm over his head and nodded through his fluster, he was second-guessing his skills at this `confidence game.

"Sit down, we've been waiting for you!" Pathfinder said cheerfully. they had? Ha, hah... "Well of course, after all, I am a valuable ess- as, asset to this team,"

Cringing at himself, although he still tried a quick glance towards Bloodhound, he reached to pull out his chair and sit on the shiny bruce.

He whistled, reading through the basic adjustments of weapons. He didn't read the general guidelines, he had done so one too many times to know that this was a bloodsport, there weren't many rules. He cleaned his gear and he asked for advice with looting choices. 

Overall, sitting was boring. It reminded Elliott of middle school, of sitting and trying to catch the attention of anyone listening. He was bad at reading, stuttering over the words, even in his head, and concentrating wasn't a strong suit of his either. He played with his beard while Bloodhound and Pathfinder passed through rare advice.

He looked out at the heights, the passing tridents. People walking their pets through forests, roadside sellers and mothers with strollers.

Time didn't pass, not in the slightest, and the tense feeling in his chest was coming back as he passed more glances at Bloodhound's unmoving mask.

Finally they began their ring movements. 

With two scouters of teammates, Elliott felt left out once again as they planned strategies of prediction. Luckily, Pathfinder tried to include him, Bloodhound even sometimes watching him, asking for his opinion.

"Let's land in the Waterbase!" Pathfinder pointed at the digital map. 

"And travel to Skull town?"

"We could circle around the bunker," Bloodhound stated. Elliott looked at them, their head turned towards him and two exchanged glances. The goggles of the mask were translucent, only visible from a very specific angle, and they left Elliott to wonder only of the colours that lurked beneath light eyelashes.

"And then we can travel to Skull town," he insisted. He didn't really care, but Skull town was the name that came to mind.

"Not wise, where the ring goes, we must follow. Surely it would be a distraction."

Pathfinder's body didn't move, never, but Bloodhound did. They cracked their fingers and stuck with their opinion.

"Fine." Elliott bit his tongue, and he sat in an embarrassed puddle between his teammates. Bloodhound wore a softer mask with fish charms at each side, so they looked apologetic in Elliott's imagination, but they only sounded pleased with his reply.

"Good."

Elliott's throat tasted like the dandelions he used to eat as a child and blood; as though he was already on the battlefield.

-

The second game of the season. Elliott felt a familiar giddiness, it was like the excitement that he had felt before his first school dance, when he had gotten his first promotion. A rushing feeling that made him want to dance and jump around the stadium. He had finished his first game. people liked him- no! People loved him and it was exciting and he finally felt seen. Mirage, finally he had been noticed as a champion and it fed the great ego that rolled through his words.

He awoke, got dressed.

He ascended into the lobby of the dropship, wearing his flashing holographic suit.

It didn't smell new, it didn't smell of rich soap and liquor. Instead, the stench of dirty laundry hung in the air, and his smile faded with every slower step. 

Babies cried, he felt lost within a crowd of millions, stuffed in a reeking ship.

Elliott woke up.

"Yikes-" he wiped his wet forehead and stretched, feet up and sitting on the side of his bed, it didn't matter. That wasn't real. He huffed an enthusiastic grin to himself, fake it till you make it, Elliott! 

That's so dumb!` He could imagine his brothers saying.

Elliott wore a tight shirt with a slogan on it, loose tracksuits, and there was a thought about this amazing process, how everything was given by the foundation, they were already making specialized suits for his matches. He whistled at billboards of himself, this would serve his brothers right!

The drive was long, the Headquarters were far but the airbase and center of electronic communications were farther. He watched dead trees around the outskirts of the city, driving past the desert.

After that nightmare, Elliott was sure to take a long and heavy whiff of the interior before waltzing towards the lobby. Roses, they lined the walls in individual vases and on the table in the centre were glasses of labeled rose water, pink in complexion and clouded. Everyone sat around, some asleep, they wore casual clothes much like Elliott did. He sat next to Renee Blasey and drooled a sip of gourmet rose concoction back into its glass, frowning at the lingering taste. He was thrilled and intimidated to be talking to the woman that had taken their last game in cash prizes.

"Good day," she said dryly and didn't look up from her book. It was something weird, and even though Elliott wasn't quite skilled at English, it looked like a coding of sorts. He could feel a connection, although nothing like before, because she was trying far too hard to blank him out.

"Ge'efternoon," he tried for a southern accent and laughed at his own pathetic impression. Gibraltar, behind him, also howled and Renee cocked a browed smirk.

"You got a costume?" She asked, he didn't understand.

"I mean- I hope so!" 

"Makes sense, you rookies never come prepared!" A voice, Anita Williams, piqued up.

"Go easa' on him, he'll get the hang of it, not everyone's a soldier!" Ajay Che fired back, they both tutted before erupting into a friendly laughter. He was close to being a soldier, he frowned at the thought.

It Turned out that they usually got mail about what they would be wearing on the night before their fight, something about protection, they couldn't have the information anytime sooner. The clothes were in their lockers, Renee was just teasing him.

Elliott snuck back through the lobby, towards the hall and to the dressing rooms. Doors with fancy designs on them, one with extra paddles; Pathfinder, another that had stickers and selfies; Octane. Elliott's door was a plain oak with chipped blue paint on the front.

Inside, it was big. There were two mirrors at either side, they reached to curve around Elliott's calves and stopped at the air above his head. A sink faucet and showerhead, a closet, a dressing table and a stall.

In the middle of the room, An orange suit stuck out like an amazingly sore thumb against the padded walls of silver, he took his time in plenties to feel the padded insides and precise sewing. 

He muttered in astonishment and spoke to himself.

The suit was a two piece. With belts and holographic enhancers on the arms, even an inner shield that morphed against his skin, the life support that only champions could earn.

It was sticky, and Elliott was fine with that stuff, but it felt uncomfortable for a full weekend. Perhaps he would get used to it.

He sighed a huff of excellence, a smile on his face and a freshly modelled beard, and opened the door.

"Whoah!" Why? Because he had bumped into somebody, and it took his eyes far too long to adjust and recognise.

"Ah- goddamnit, at least ask me on a date before pulling stunts!" He joked and stood himself back up, and then he finally recognised. Bloodhound, he had unknowingly flirted with the notorious sniper, the non-binary warrior with the bird, the axe wielder, Bloodhound sat on the floor. Elliott held a hand out to help them up, hoping to hide his embarrassment behind a cover of support. but they were attractive, and Elliott hoped that they were fine with his attitude, that they even didn't realize anything peculiar.

"þökk, Dear warrior." They thanked and took the hand to support as they rose to level, oh, they looked more menacing when Elliott was face-to-face with their mask. But not just menacing, there was something else, something somewhat-attractive and it made Elliott's abdomen flutter in a peculiar way.

They stood there for a few long seconds, still holding helpful hands.

"Good luck on the battlefield, felagi," they finally said. They squeezed Elliott's gloved hand before parting, Bloodhound turned around, and he muttered a staggering yeah` as they walked away. Elliott fixed his already perfect hair.

When he returned, ungracefully, with a joke that nobody seemed to notice, he picked up on more voices.

"Recently, they've been so quick! And I love quick, don't get me wrong, Mija, but where's my time to run all the courses when I'm winning after ten hours!" Octavio went.

"Don't be an idiot, it's all better if we ain't out fightin' in the cold fa weeks!" Ajay Che replied.

"Get ready to drop!" Said the announcer.

"Keep your hands to yourself," Caustic threatened.

A long fight awaited.

-

Over, finally. According to pathfinder, they were completely ready for the first apex game and would super win! Elliott thought otherwise, because his hands shook when he held his glass of coffee in the morning and he had only gone to practice his aim once in this month. Pathfinder excitedly excused himself to the bathroom and Elliott's eyebrows curved into a question that would never leave his lips, bathroom, robot, and he flinched when Pathfinder patted his back before leaving. Pathfinder was too human.

Bloodhound sat across, no distractions except the papers that demanded folding. Their head moved solemnly as they did so, and the slight light shone through a big window to accentuate the curves of their suit. Elliott swallowed.

"Are you feeling any better?"

"Yeah, I mean- well, I'll be alright. Hah." Elliott pushed fingers through his beard, down the back of his neck.

"That's--" Bloodhound nodded towards their paper binder, those stupid goggles making sure that nobody would notice them watching, Elliott cursed them. "-- good to hear."

He wasn't sure anymore, because the longer they sat there together, the worse his pain was getting. Like a jinx and Elliott's throat felt so dry and his ribs wouldn't expand like they were supposed to. Perhaps Elliott was allergic to the leather of Bloodhound's outfits, or maybe he was just playing himself. Elliott coughed, and then he coughed louder and finally something unhinged from inside his throat, mucus and flower petals. Bloodhound better not have been looking, because he had been hiding it from himself and he couldn't deny it after gaining a witness.

Bloodhound was quiet while Elliott stuffed the small yellow petals into his pocket, he pulled one out of his beard and huffed a curse beneath his breath.

He looked at them, not lifting his head and embarrassed.

They raised their mask up at him, straightening their shoulders.

Pathfinder called out joyfully, it was time to go.

"Right, then." Elliott stood up and patted his thighs, Bloodhound was also standing. Pathfinder expressed his thoughts on the matter, sadness towards both of their call for leave, but he accepted it easily, stupid robot.

They walked back through the vast halls, towards the door, nearly there. Bloodhound pulled his shoulder just short of the door, Elliott turned back around and let out something short of an exclamation. He had closely escaped, but now he was looking back at this person, up and then down, at their hands that left Elliott's arm to rest calmly at either side and the way their legs parted slightly in a mid-walking stop. 

Nearly as though Bloodhound had forgotten what they wanted to say, absurd and Elliott knew that he was projecting himself, they stood quietly.

Finally, they sighed, drawn out and deep.

"May the Allfather bless us with a good win, get well soon." Ah, how their accent struck a soft cord through each word. Elliott nodded, using the last of his strength to rub a soft and reassuring thumb against the uniform cuff of Bloodhound's elbow pad. He wouldn't say anything, more precisely, he couldn't. He couldn't speak, so he opened the door and hurried down the steps and then got a little further, turned a lane, crouched and spat blood onto an old pavement. His throat felt hoarse and his eyes were wet.

The puddle of vomit circled itself into a crosswalk drain, the liquid going down and the yellow flowers staying about the barriers. 

"Elliott,"

he turned back. No, no, because it was Bloodhound and they had followed him and they kept a distance and watched. Ah, he could laugh it off, it's nothing! Don't worry!

"Are you fit to be fighting so soon?"

"Uh- yeah? Why, you getting nervous?" He laughed, his beard was wet with spit and his face a sickly pale. Bloodhound huffed and looked Elliott over, folding their arms into an unsatisfied cross.

"Hm. You owe me no explanation Felagi, but I can only hope that you get the help you need. I will try and speak no more on the subject, but I keep no promises." 

Elliott laughed dryly, he walked past Bloodhound and leaned on their arm with more false assurance on his way towards the roads. Maybe he liked the warmth that radiated through their body, always going for physical contact. It didn't seem to bother them.

The littered pavements and the loud noises from parties in apartment complexes, Elliott headed for Paradise Lounge, feeling the familiar smell of his street, such a shame he couldn't drink on the job. He would have to find a way to complain to Renee, explain himself. 

Elliott shuffled through his keys, opening the store shutters and then the old and rusty door. He grabbed an open bottle of alcohol from a near table, thinking about it, but he left empty handed after throwing it out, towards the counter. This was the last sense of control left in his body. 

With loud flicks, the room came alight, hurting his eyes. Signs outside a neon shade of orange and holograms helped him serve. He sat near the beer taps and sighed in the final moments of silence, before people of all sizes gathered in and used his mixtape.

A couple minutes later, he lifted his head at the sight of a loud party filing through the doors.


	3. A nighttime of evening Primrose

Elliott slept after his shift at Paradise lounge, and he awoke in… Well that was a hard question to answer. It was early, but the grey outside was not compensating to any morning shine. He awoke and that was the point, and his stomach grumbled in a need for food and it was just really goddamn early. The digital calendar above his bed marked one day before the first Apex game and although he had never managed to memorize the order of week, he knew that it was somewhere towards the end. He pushed locks of tangled hair back, thinking to himself among other things, that he was happy to be getting a professional stylist before their game tomorrow; at least the black bags beneath his eyes were less prominent than beforehand. 

He wouldn't dwell on the _other things,_ he thought, but ended up gazing towards a corner nonetheless. He wondered if he was crazy, falling in love and vomiting nettled flowers. Feeling the graze against his lip, dry from stomach acid, it wouldn't be out of question for such an occurrence to happen. Karma, perhaps, he laughed at his dumbfoundedness.

After letting his feelings simmer, Elliott had a lukewarm shower and when the water hit his shrill flesh as though shots from a quick gun, he shouted a steamy joke about surprises. And a surprise, his mind fled to Bloodhound. Why was he like that? Why were they like that? Always so caring.. Along, how were they feeling? Did they think about him as they left his side towards their-probably really warm and old home? By the time he had finished, he smelt like his tangy cider shower gel. Soft hair and a softer beard, something that wouldn't last after stylists rolled their pasty hands through it, and definitely not after nights of sweaty bloodsport with no showers. 

When he made his way through the kitchen, wearing an old towel around his waist, he felt bad for betraying that marbled red coffee machine. Alas, the real reason why Elliott was even awake, why he wasn't in the gym for one last time before the real thing, was because he was headed to an appointment with his doctor. There was no food before going to meet a doctor, He had nearly forgotten about that ordeal. Someone was worrying about him, whether because it affected their chances at a win or because they cared about his safety. Perhaps he could be a coward in the face of a fight, which absolutely _never_ happened, but he wouldn't break a promise.

After trotting around the house, watering plants and watching the news on his mediocrely-sized television, Elliott finally pulled loose jeans over his thighs. He pressed the leather through his belt and picked a tight shirt with an apex logo on the front. looking good, Elliott, he thought to himself as he stared at his grinning reflection. _Yeah, I guess I am._ He posed with a whoosh of his side-quiff.

The hospital was some time away, the same driver of his took their time driving him around curves, Elliott admired some dangling dolls near the steering wheel. He even spotted one of himself, laughing ever so quietly.

The hospital was old but it was modern. Glass windows that routed electricity shined out like giant mirrors across the roads, sharp signs for navigation and a generally flashy build. He hadn't been here in a while, Hammond used their own infirmaries for winners… and losers, but well, he guessed not many of the losers made it out. Only the winners had earned their right to _lose?_ it was hard to explain.

Being VIP was good, Hammond owned everything, and whatever they had missed, Silva Pharmaceuticals was sure to steal, those Silva, a family of quick little gremlins. All that Elliott had to do was say his name and flash his ID, which the nurses probably didn't need. He swore he had met fans who knew where his acne scars left faint marks around his cheeks. They swooned and pulled him from the crowd of citizens, down into the halls and up to an office with sliding doors. Elliott didn't bother reading the sign that leveled below his neck, shining in fresh ink, he picked his nails.

The door opened quickly, he swallowed his anxiety and smiled.

"Elliott Witt, you haven't been around here in _two_ years, how come you've completely forgotten our date!"

"Yeah," he laughed. He was getting weak, this appetite really ruined his sense of humour.

"Come in, sit down, make yourself at home!"

So he did, Elliott's fingers tapped the sides of a comfortable chair in confidence. The doctor, whose name was Dr Herman and whose hair receded from white into the pasty skin of his scalp, with vast wrinkles around his eyes and Elliott wondered if his fans would still like an old and worn out Mirage. 

Dr Herman used a cold stethoscope between Elliott's shoulder blades, and then down a little and to his chest. He was instructed to cough, and then again except harder. The doctor also checked his ears and tongue. 

He explained what he felt, what he was seeing. The flowers, the blood, the vomit. The pain and that asthmatic feeling that accompanied his group meetings, his throat cracked as he hurried through description. His doctor was quiet, nodding and writing along. 

Finally he piqued up after momentary silence.

"Right," Dr Herman sighed and sat across from Elliott. "We have good news and bad news." Elliott wanted to make a joke, something about anything, Elliott was usually the one to give a childish smirk and say such a thing. Except Dr Herman looked to be serious.

"Well- you can give me the good news, then I'll decide if I want the bad news!"

Herman didn't listen, and he itched his scalp as he spoke.

"What you've described sounds like a very rare condition, one that can be life threatening if not treated."

"I asked for the good news--" 

"The good news is that you caught it early. Furthermore, you can still cure it with a bit of willpower."

"Right, and- so, it's not _that_ serious?"

"I never said that."

They both paused for a couple of seconds, an awkward moment.

"Say, have you suppressed anything lately? Maybe a serious woman? _Man?"_ Herman prodded quietly with a frown on his face and a supportive arm on Elliott's shoulder. Of course he was, it was Bloodhound who was… well, neither? But for some forsaken reason he knew positively. Goddamnit, he had fallen in love and now his flirtatious past was biting him in the ass.

He lied.

"Not any more than usual, I don't think so, hah."

Dr Herman raised a suspicious eyebrow.

He watched the doctor scribble something more down, Elliott wondered if it was anything important, seeing as he could barely ever read the patchy handwriting.

Finally, he asked.

"I don't have to call my mom, right?"

Dr Herman shook his head in dismay. 

"You pesky boy, you ought call her anyway, and make sure to mention your infamous doctor." He huffed out and smirked, Elliott shuddered.

They shared another serious exchange, the doctor was apologizing, expressing how rare and undocumented these subgenres of diseases were. Elliott shrugged it off, telling him not to worry.

He excused himself and told Elliott to follow the instructions that were written down on his discharge bill, thankfully printed.

Elliott raised his eyebrows as he read it slowly and in great effort, standing at the side of the corridors:

**Hanahaki; physical-mental disease**

**One,** optional antibiotics and a Salbutamol inhaler.

**Two,** the coordinates of following scheduled meetings by professionals.

These professionals couldn't find more complicated words. Elliott frowned, Perhaps his permanent doctor, who had been through ten years of hardships and stitches and flu, wasn't aware of Elliott's career. No, no way, he made it a job of his to brag at any given moment and crazy fans swooned around this floor in an aimless search for open windows. Tomorrow, he would fight, but for now, he could hurry around and get his antibiotics, read about this weird flower fucker on his mobile device.

He ventured towards the exit, but stopped to buy an inhaler and some pills.

Elliott got distracted, reaching for fake vitamins. They were bear shaped and targeted at a younger audience, strawberry flavored. Upon reading the _Silva!_ Trademarked logo and seeing the double digit price, he put it back on the shelf.

The woman at the pharmaceutical counter was old, her white curls softly jumping at either side of her head. She smiled, nearly as though remembering something, but said nothing as she passed him the small bag of supplies and wished him a good evening. On his way home, paparazzi followed, he tossed his hair and winked at the cameras.

Elliott placed his leather wallet on the desk near his kitchen, dropping into the old pillows of his couch and sighing in comfort. He watched runbacks of past games, smiling when decoys began running around the screen. Time passed.

Elliott called the scribbled number on his prescription, but it came to an old woman's line. He excused himself and sighed when he knew it was safe to hang up. So he got the wrong number, but he changed one of the more angular threes and it reached the line of some run-down hospital. Elliott booked an appointment for the late evening, he then proceeded to call his co-workers and told them that today was their lucky day and that the Lounge was shut.

The meeting was in an hour, he made himself a sandwich and ate in a standing position while he scrolled through his phone. He stopped on images of attractive women, posts about famous personalities. He scoffed at stories about himself, even falling down a line of Bloodhound debunkers. He grinned around his bite at the false accusations that they were an alien, inhuman, sometimes trying to debunk their identity or even being rude and offensive. 

Hanahaki, he spelt it wrong numerous times and ended up in weird places, so he grabbed the folded bill and copied mindlessly. Pictures of surgery, which even after seeing death, smelling human decay, made him flinch. Nettles, ulcers, he could feel what he was seeing and he hadn't even read about anything yet. It made his stomach churn in a realisation that this was real, serious, dangerous. Maybe surgery was useful, he thought hopefully.

After an hour of deep research, many travels to the dictionary of easier words and down blogs of `survivors, he decided that surgery was _not_ useful. Only scary and very dangerous, he was not ready to deal with these things. Elliott, left his home.

-

The dropship descended, getting closer to the ground as the doors opened. Elliott looked out and his hair flew back from the wind. His fingers gripped the rear of the ship, ready for a command to let go. 

His teammates exchanged glances, Wraith looked excited, Bloodhound looked… well, Elliott wished he could tell. They whistled quietly, and Elliott's fingers nearly brushed against their own. 

"Prepare for battle,"

The sign. They all dropped together, this was only the third drop of his championship and he wondered if it would ever feel better. Renee told that story, and she looked unphased by the harsh winds. Elliott laughed at his pun.

They headed for the Labs, Wraith bit her lip anxiously.

Elliott landed on the flip side of a building. He leapt off of its roof, still amazed by the weightless feeling when he hit the ground. He grabbed a gun, a shield and a Thermite stick before running out and towards the surroundings. The digital map on his wrist ensured that the team was together, bloodhound foraged through the forests and Wraith took to following the airtight tunnels of the Laboratory.

"I'm getting shot at!" Shouted Wraith, Elliott felt the buzz through his headpiece. He tucked supplies in his backpack and left the building.

"I'll be right there, I'm a great wingman, yeah, wingman? oh, whatever! I'm coming!" And Elliott jumped at the opportunity.

Bloodhound was already there, and he watched the way their arms reassuringly grabbed at Renee's suit when they pulled her up. Back into the fight, and he couldn't hear whatever they were saying over the sounds of syringes and Gunshots, but it sounded strong and deep. Elliott aimed and his Gun vibrated tightly, the hits barely off, caps jumping like skittles. He smiled and he sniffed at the gunpowder that reminded him of how his brothers smelt when they used to come home. A hand grabbed his shoulders back.

"There's another team, we're heading back!" Wraith shouted, but Elliott knew that it was the only way he could hear her. And they retreated, watching from a dark crevice.

Renee cringed as she injected synthetic health into her wrist. That stuff was adrenaline, and Elliott's leg jogged as he followed her lead.

"Where's Bloodhound?" She asked.

"I dunno, they were out there!" Elliott shrugged towards the noise. Renee frowned deeply, she adjusted her grip on the warm gun and ran towards the room.

"They're still fighting," Elliott followed with a spring in his step.

They really were fighting, and they ducked behind corners and out of sight. Goggles blaring in some sort of deep red, Bloodhound was fast and their gloved fingers were firm as they reloaded their rifle. 

Wraith stood up.

"Woah- where're you going?!" 

"Bloodhound can't do this alone."

"Oh, yeah, ah, yeah." Elliott ran after her, and she played with a gadget and then she was gone. 

Elliott was behind a wall, across from Bloodhound. He could see their tension, fighting six enemies. Elliott fought as well and he shot bullets that barely missed.

Wraith appeared beside him, a gaping hole tearing through the image in front of him. This was the first time he saw their powers on anything but a holographic television in a mall or at home.

Elliott pushed an experimental hand through the void, he pulled it back when something splattered across it. Blood, still fresh, Elliott ran through it. His vision was distorted and then he was in the middle of gunfire. Two men were down and four more were shooting, alongside bloodhound and Wraith. 

Upon appearing, the attention surrounded him, and Elliott grinned, finally utilizing his mother's technology. It was a bubbling, electric feeling, suddenly, he was invisible, surrounded by copies. 

Decoys, it was a decoy party.

Elliott knocked somebody down, and he felt bullets pass through his skin, some were friendly. He smiled, sweat pooling around the goggles on his forehead. Elliott was strong, his clones confused the crowd. No longer nine fighters, now it was fourteen. Elliott joked, kidded, laughed. People were dropping like flies. 

"Last one down, this dimension is looking up," wraith finally piqued from behind Elliott, a rehearsed line that he had heard many times on television. she rested her arm on his shoulder like she had done before, only now it felt more concrete, a more personal congratulations: "Good job." 

Elliott shuddered, Renee was good at pouncing, fighting, but reassurance? He had to give that a second thought. And mainly, when had she moved across the room?

Bloodhounds familiar footsteps, heavy from equipment and short, prominent, sounded through the room. They hummed at arrival. "Thissa was a good fight, vell done felagi."

Hell yeah! Elliott had gotten the approval from his teammates, Bloodhound patted him on the back. Laying low, they looted and healed up.

"You'll have to show me that equipment later, Mirage," Wraith stated, but it had a hint of friendliness in its tone and Elliott laughed at her. "I would also appreciate a demonstration," bloodhound raised an arm across the room. Elliott made a flirtatious joke aimed at the both of them, Renee snickered, Elliott watched bloodhound for any sort of hint towards their reaction. 

The gadget around Elliott's wrist vibrated,

"Half the squads remain, alright buddies, if you plan on getting killed, wait until afterwards."

He laughed to himself, if not for the dark patch of ink below his glove, he would have mispronounced a majority of the words and embarrassed himself in front of the cool guys. You go, Witt!

-

Elliott locked the door behind him.

It was a deep noon outside, getting darker a lot sooner than usual in a change from summer to summer… Funny. He could surely walk towards the destination written against the smart technology on his arm. A smart watch, and the same soft voice as the one that narrated the Apex games told him which direction to head in order to arrive at the smaller hospital.

Dusted windows with steel barricades and construction towers, they took him in wide arms, automated doors dissolved into air and Elliott walked through. People of all shapes and sizes, some sitting and some standing, families and couples from all around, were in this place. 

"Elliott Witt?" He was used to the glances that shot up at his name, Elliott looked towards the voice, a young and stern woman in uniform. 

"Come with me."

The corridors were lined with paintings. A view of icy mountains and villages stood out among the abstract works, Elliott was walking slower, stopping to take in the colorful decor. The woman finally cleared her throat, Elliott looked up towards her, and then to the closed door with a catchy sign and a blurred window that she stood beside.

"Please Wait inside for your doctor to arrive," when Elliott said that he _hoped to see the woman again-_ in a rather flirty manner, she frowned upon his needy grin and turned to leave.

Elliott opened the door slowly, but with no hesitation. The room was colorful and messy. He got comfortable, fingers running across the red leather of an armrest on a modern sofa chair.

"Ah!" The door opened and a lean frame entered the office. Wide glasses framed their face and with arms that were full, the door was supported open only by an untied shoe. They slipped through in inelegance, upon sitting in their rolling desk chair and putting a fancy coffee mug on the table, they pushed the glaces back up a rough nose.

"Who are you?" Elliott wasn't asking this, instead, the doctor smacked their mouth around the clay glass with the Apex print on it. 

"I- well, I'm Elliott Witt, obviously," he laughed sharply. 

"Right," they raised an eyebrow. It was quiet, the sound of Elliott's jogging leg suddenly sounded louder than usual.

"Is it usually obvious?" They finally asked.

Elliott didn't understand the question, he bit his chapped lips.

"Damn, I mean, I'm pretty much famous!--" He boasted with a hand against his chest. "--Well, on apex at least, do you watch a lot of content?" 

"The last thing I have time for is television, son."

"But the mug-"

"Oh, this old thing? Somebody left it in the cafeteria a few months back!"

"Oh."

Elliott laughed, this doctor who he Still hadn't caught the name of, and whose jacket was creased in a bundle of worn-out Coffee stains which covered their tag, laughed along. 

It died into a fizzle, Elliott straightened his hair and coughed down his wrist.

They flexed their wrists out in the chair, leaning forward.

"So, Hanahaki Disease. Well, Elliott Witt, you're a first in my books."

"A lotta people say that," he laughed at his own joke and dwelled on their sharp grin. 

They asked the protocol questions with more attitude than Doctor Herman, so Elliott replied with just as much enthusiasm. How long? _Damn, too long, but seriously, on and off for about five months._ How much does it hurt? _I dunno, a seven? But my breath stinks and it's putting off my game._

Then they got towards the more complicated questions.

Elliott gulped, his laugh was running dry, he picked at his nails. The doctor was only speaking little above a whisper, leaning towards him with their mug wrapped between fingers.

"You know about this stuff, I assume? Do you know who it is?" Elliott grinned and felt the rumble within his stomach jolt in movement, he looked towards anywhere except the reflection in a dark computer screen, something other than an ashamed expression.

Elliott nodded.

"Well, we have all the time in the world to open up. I've heard you have a big day tomorrow, Mirage." And that shit eating smirk on their face lit the room back up, Elliott gasped with red cheeks.

"Wait- what? You liar!" 

"What can I say," they shrugged defensively through a laugh.

"What about the mug, Are you a diehard? do you want an autograph?"

"No, no. I wasn't lying about that, I truly have no time for entertainment, but your identification card has a whole segment for such a famous career. I must do research, after all."

They laughed again, with great chemistry between the two people. An intersecting sense of humour, the light touch, Elliott couldn't miss out on a friendship of such.

They got to the end with an agreement to meet again, that this wasn't the best time for Elliott to be lectured about his warped romantic perception and that they could continue another day.

Elliott slapped his thighs as he stood up, towering over, he was smiling, it had been a while since he had spoken to anyone for so long. The same temperamental assistant in the tight dress escorted Elliott towards the exit, but she had heard the laughter radiating from that shut door and was giving him an unnoticeably lighter attitude. 

Elliott skipped home in the dark. He ate his meal alone, the reflection of his television screen deep within shiny irises. He got clean for a comfortable rest, thinking only about the fight tomorrow, he was somehow less anxious than before.

Quiet minutes by himself.

Then the phone rang, he answered it.

A soft crackle audible, and an even softer voice, yet somehow still deep and stern, It was Bloodhound.

"Elliott, are you well by now?" And then it was quiet for a moment, and when Elliott didn't answer, couldn't answer, they readjusted audibly.

"Ah, tomorrow we fight. I wanted to wish you a good night, worthy of sleep, so that we shall strengthen our final destiny on the fields." They sounded as though contemplating, quiet words getting lost in the Ringing of his ears. Elliott's eyes were running and so was his nose, his throat was dry and he felt the pressure deep beneath his skin, he couldn't worry anyone anymore.

"Thank you, Bloodhound," he pushed out, it sounded a husk of the personality that he was, it sounded hollow of any meaning, even as Elliott admired this person so much.

Bloodhound hummed, it sounded vibrating.

"Take care of yourself, Elliott… we will meet in battle." 

At least he thought that they saw him as a companion of sorts, he hoped that this lackluster attitude, the one that he couldn't help as he crouched down to his apartment floor in a ball, wouldn't change things. 

The phone ended, sound returning to a brisk silence. 

Elliott heaved and his face swelled into a mess of orchids, tears, spit and snot, hoping it would go away and that his eyes wouldn't be puffed when he awoke. Hoping that when he awoke, he would be in his bed. That he _would_ even awake, because first, he had to shut out this brisk pain and drag himself to the shower, before getting himself to sleep.

Even after an eventful day, after forgetting his worries, he stressed this fight. He didn't want to let anyone down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much like Elliott, I have not memorized the order of the week.


	4. These final moments

Elliott Witt was losing his charm. 

Maybe it was the age, or maybe the life threatening illness that his body had conjured, but it was barely there. He couldn't swoon people off of their feet, couldn't flirt his way down underwear and wake up in unfamiliar bedrooms. Instead he woke up alone, accompanied only by his egotistical attitude and childishness. He had to bear the loneliness when he swallowed a hard pill of pain relief because his throat was hoarse from a night of coughing. Had to swallow harder pills like that his costume would probably be loose around smaller muscles and how his shoulders were more lean than last year. 

When the unfamiliar barista served him a tasteless and cheap coffee, because he needed time to get ready in the dropship and knew that he would forget about the free aisles of food and drink. Her long nails tapped the edge beside his shoulders and her nametag dirty, she smiled great and wide because of the number on his cup, he had nothing to say, giving a grin beneath his fluffy beard. 

"Call me when you win, mister Witt," she said flirtily, and her eyelashes batted, but he could only pass a weak joke or two along. She told him that she would give little treats, said things that were beyond acceptable in a workplace but of course Elliott was naïve in those aspects. 

Elliott stood at the side of the café and read the morning news, feeling no sense of wonder when he read about the apex Games returning. Zoned out, head down and unbothered, but alone. He was certainly happy when cold fingers stretched down his back, finally familiar.

Pathfinder knew far too much about him for anything to be safe anymore, Elliott wouldn't be surprised if the robot knew about his Hanahaki problem. Anita Williams saluted friendly, "mornin', ranger."

Pathfinder and Anita were there to save him, Makoa also caught up between increased crowds, It was good that they were here. Bloodhound, who had tagged along but lingered near the exit of the cafe? Not so much, but he was happy for their presence, Even if their scent was intoxicating in a painful way and reminded him of toxic gas or chalky smoke. On the way out from the old place, smell disappearing into the whiff of clear air, Elliott pat Bloodhound's back in greeting. Bloodhound nodded in his direction, he grinned between his friends, ignoring the blossoms in his ribcage.

Elliott made somewhat confident conversation as the group huddled through traffic, Anita was always helpful, he laughed at familiar buildings. See, walking down to the center was a tradition. Renee used to sometimes join them, but she had since moved across the city with her Fiancé. The same went for Ajay. He could even recall a time where Octavio had run all the way down from that richer area across the sea of factories, and then he somehow still proceeded to complain about how slow they were all walking. It was a very nice feeling, that of nostalgia, like when he saw the outskirts of corn fields and thought of his brothers. 

The lesser point was that this was the first time Bloodhound was present, although everyone was invited, perse. He would never understand the attraction of being alone and damn, they were always… well, alone. Bloodhound and Artur, their Raven that Elliott had heard far too much about, seemed to fight the world with minimal interaction. They never asked for help, even at the brink of death.

Little yet fast steps, they passed a last building and entered the narrow path through forests of fake trees. These were the outskirts, Elliott used to run these paths every morning, he used to be so fit, it made him laugh.

More factories, more conversations.

The team eventually arrived at a fence that led to giant doors. The building looked to be glass, but it seemed more secure, nearly as though made of iron walls. Bloodhound removed their gloves, Elliott hid his sheepish gaze towards those ever so interesting hands. Pathfinder was pulling his identification card from between a metal junction in his wrist, talking about something that passed from one ear and out of the next, Anita laughed with Makoa. 

Elliott felt the electric pulse go through his hand when it lay palm down on the detector, he laughed at the tingle, Bloodhound was unmoving. The tall doors opened, Elliott gasped at the ever-changing interior.

The grass was always greener, especially in this sense. People lived in poverty only a short drive away, but inside of this building, it was as though they were unaware. Elliott was not disgusted by these things, he didn't understand them.

The walls were plaid with gold pillars, shining in a futuristic way. The floor was also gold, reflecting footsteps, velvet roses in jugs lined the walls, their petals nearly purposely on the tiles. Attractive workers stood at counters, near red and white couches. Elliott's eyes widened at such a beautiful decor, his jaw dropping. "Hell yeah, This is what I'm talking about!" Anita said with great enthusiasm.

"Hey! Buenas amigos, over here!" Ajay was physically restraining Octavio, they laughed. Everyone sat down, the chairs were more comfortable than last year and Elliott sprawled out across one in an attractive display. Bloodhound was stern, they spoke with Makoa and Elliott was trying too hard to hear their heavy voice from beyond the crowd.

Renee also eventually joined the group, Natalie tailing behind with a bag of heavy gear. Her hand was cold as ever.

"How's it going?" She asked in a low tone, Elliott grinned in her direction.

"Well, nobody's dead yet, that's a start, right?" She laughed into a gloved palm, more open. 

Time was passing, and Elliott ate the tiny confections as it went by. His stomach full of rich food and pleasant laughter, eventually, people were picked off by their editorial teams.

Renee was taken, pathfinder as well.

Soon enough, even Ajay was called away, she left with a laugh and a 'good luck!' and now there were only two left. Elliott and Bloodhound, this wasn't fair, he wondered if their goddamn Allfather was responsible for this and then scolded himself at the disrespect.

He moved closer, changing from his red chair to their white one.

"Elliott,"

"Ye-yeah?" They paused, mask moving towards him. Their chat was more anticlimactic than what was playing through his head. The two spoke like friends, because they were? Sort of… speaking about their year, their strategies and growing trends around the Capital.

Soon, they were both comfortable, Elliott's legs wide and his arm hanging off of the couch rest.

They asked if he was doing better than last week.

"I mean, I have a disease, kinda," Bloodhound hummed at his answer.

"Well, that is unfortunate,"

"I guess--" he didn't know exactly what it meant. He felt more open, tactless, he laughed aloud. "-- Hanahaki, yeah, that's it, hurts a ton." He was very impressed at his pronunciation, Bloodhound nodded, they were both quiet for long seconds.

Elliott grinned some more. They changed to another topic, talking about Bloodhound's sniping skills, Elliott gave average flirts, complementing them endlessly while Bloodhound nodded along and shared their tips.

Bloodhound seemed to contemplate, but Elliott always thought so, especially when they were quiet. He didn't understand overthinking things, it was out of his reach, though he sure did a ton of it around Bloodhound.

Suddenly they were going backwards.

"Elliott, If you don't mind my asking, of course, do you know who is causing it?"

"What, my sniping?" Elliott itched his cheek, out of the loop. Bloodhound scoffed, it was nearly inaudible, Elliott loved when they did that, his heart leaping. 

"Nei, no. It is, well, your disease,"

Elliott's mouth gaped, sharp teeth feeling more prominent, his hand wrapped around his neck sheepishly. 

"Oh," Elliott was not particularly stunned to find out that Bloodhound recognized Hanahaki, or maybe the shock just hadn't quite settled in. Bloodhound was philosophical in that way, they knew everything whereas Elliott had only found out that there was such a thing as puking flowers yesterday. He rubbed his beard, still soft, both hands occupied in comfort.

"Nope, no idea." His lying resembled a student being asked about missing homework, childish, to say the least, Bloodhound replied with their usual tone. They spoke about light politics, seeming to share the same idea.

It had been five minutes, Elliott was regretting his impulsive personality, for now he was overthinking. He had really jinxed it with his earlier statement.

Ten more minutes passed. Laughter and bonding, Bloodhound wasn't the best at that, Elliott made up for whatever they lacked. He felt that indigestion again, more painful, he damned those flowers and clenched his fist.

"Bloodhound?" A woman said, holding a box of supplies. Elliott smiled as they stood up. Bloodhound rubbed his shoulder in parting before following their executive to a small room.

It felt like forever alone, waiting to be called upon. Elliott's shoulder still felt warm, he smiled in secretion. 

A young man made his way up to the chairs. Elliott made a joke about the time, straightening his clothes as he followed.

-

It was a quiet dawn, rain flooding the wooden panels of a rooftop. Elliott had told his teammate that they ought sleep in the cement tunnels near The Cage, but they had ended up in an old Hut and stayed there. Now, it was morning and their equipment was soaked, the panels of the building echoing loud and making them deaf to any movement around camp. 

Caustic kicked his leg, awakening a peaceful Mirage from the only sleep he had gotten in days. It was cold, the foil blanket doing nothing to warm him, it didn't even reach his legs!

"Get up, we're going to revive our insolent teammate." 

Elliott grabbed his guns, heavyweight on his shoulder and waist, then they were traveling through the muddy roads towards the nearest satellite tower.

The process of modern resurrection was long and tiring. Elliott stood around, rain pouring over his head and his arms hurting from pressing the buttons of the device. Caustic was watching, making sure the coast was clear and although it was staged and there were always people watching, nobody was ready to bring their teammate down from the skies. 

Two hours in, Elliott was distracting himself with the help of dancing decoys, he laughed when they turned to mush. Decoys and rain didn't blend well together, the Bamboozle sounding like a monster. Elliott's hair was in his eyes.

"Bingo!" He shouted, and then put a hand on his mouth. The loud dropship descended, doors opening that Elliott could hear rather than see, and Lifeline was falling with little grace. Her legs stuck to the Mud in an unnatural way.

Caustic was back, tubes of gas in his arms, he threw a heavy backpack in her direction, Lifeline tutted at him.

They returned to the wooden shelter.

The sun showed no sign of coming out from behind clouds, Elliott laughed at the puddles around their camp, making mud-pies.

A gun cocked and shot, Elliott shifted away, his ear bleeding from the scathing bullet. Elliott rolled in the mud, body covered in dirt, and then he was gone.

"Bamboozle!" His decoys taunted, Ajay and caustic appeared from the wooden shelter. "Bamboozle! Bamboozle!" Elliott's decoys were not being shot, it was the rain, the rain was blasting them into a mist. Elliott was visible, Octane shooting holes in his defense, as though insults at his costume, damage sprinting through seventy five and then two hundred on his wrist. Elliott dropped to the floor, grunting, "goddamnit,"

The groups collided, Octane making circles around Caustic, who looked to be green in his trap of gasses, they ridiculed each-other. Elliott winced, a translucent teal tube surrounded him, Ajay was pulling him back up, smiling, Elliott slid towards cover.

The long process of healing, as his teammates took bullets. Wraith kicked Lifelines feet from below and her whole body pelled for the puddle, she let out a curdled scream as she embraced the fall. 

Elliott ran out to help, his Wingman hitting crisp shots and he drove around the dirt. One down, two down, he grabbed for Ajay, the mud securing them in half-transparency. An automatic riled up from behind them, Elliott caught a glimpse of red before he woke up in the hospital bed two days later. The champions were Octane, Wraith and Bloodhound.

He wiped his rocky face of bruises, at least there was no rain in Solace. His arms felt heavy with bandages and his ear was already back to usual, hopefully there would be no long lasting effects. He couldn't bear another badly placed scar on his face, especially not when he had to go and congratulate Bloodhound, hopefully Renee could work her charm on the wreck of his face.

-

The new protocol was wearing costumes all the way towards the airbase. It was speculated that they were gaining more money from paparazzi, and with costumes on, it made for better pics. Elliott didn't care, but he felt exposed and defenseless. It was embarrassing, everyone was well-built, he swore that Natalie's calves looked twice as tight as last year, he covered his grin as Renee glared, deep eye contact.

He got it! Natalie was soon to be married, but damn. Maybe if Elliott wasn't fighting a deadly illness, pent up for his mysterious teammate, he would think about giving her a hopeless flirt. Both would probably end with a swift death, he thought, whether in a hospital bed with a bucket of flowers beside him or because his best friend was beating him up for trying to steal her fiancé. He laughed at the thought, as if Renee hadn't taken part in many of Elliott's deaths, at least he was prepared.

Elliott wore a red bodysuit, plated with shiny black shield pads on his elbows and knees. He reckoned his holsters and bag would also be a shade of dark red and black, his hair had been smoothed back, with bright highlights to match his suit, his beard was a gelled mess. He looked towards the group of cameramen, the robots, eyes finally finding the lurking Bloodhound. He was well accustomed to the painful beat of his heart, they readjusted from one leg to the other, knees padded with a soft bark. Their bird cawed at its name, a graceful pose, the park went white momentarily as paparazzi snapped pictures.

Bloodhound readjusted again, who knew they were this open to those bloodthirsty photographers, Elliott thought. He himself was already being surrounded, but his Decoys seemed to keep most of the people tame, saying his best lines and giving attractive faces. A microphone shoved in his face, Elliott moved away in protest.

"Whoah, hey! Take it easy, I'm fragile." He winked at the cameras, this woman with the tight business dress was getting closer, her cameramen surrounding him.

She introduced herself carelessly.

"Are you looking forward to this season of Apex? What about the Tournament, are you ready, Mirage?" Elliott was still stunned, but after so much of this, over the span of two years, he knew how to take control. 

He grabbed the microphone, holding it close within his careless pose.

"Well, any usual person would be afraid. I mean, man, I would be afraid if I was fighting against… well, me. All of me," and he laughed in his ego, hugging the nearby decoys. The interviewer, perplexed with her own ego after defeating the other company huntsman surrounding the lot, also laughed. Her teeth were a bright white and her skin a shade of fake tan, a headphone in her ear.

"Right, right. The fans want to know who you'll be sparing this season?" She shouted over the loudness. 

"Uh, nobody?" He mimicked her own tone, "y'know, if i could, I would think about helping Octane, but I doubt he'll survive long enough to meet me!" He grinned in vanity, Octavio was going to kill him, but hopefully not in the arena. 

"What about your teammates? You have worked with Bloodhound and Pathfinder before, so has anything changed since then?" Elliott's eyes were becoming more strained, he held a hand to cover them from the blare. 

"If I could, I would always work with them. Pathfinder has been great, seriously, and so has Bloodhound." She went to ask another question, nodding dismissively. 

A siren hissed and everyone jumped, Elliott flinched. The Apex Games had made him cautious and so his eyes darted around the room.

Robotics seemed to move the crowd, some of them screaming, Elliott swallowed.

It was quiet, the gates of Iron shutting around the contestants. Everyone stood in amazement, Octavio Shouted about the awesomeness of the crowd control. 

Bloodhound was immobile, Artur had flown above a lamppost, afraid of the noise, it cawed. 

Makoa rubbed his head and laughed, Renee's hand and shoulders twitched.

Ajay sighed in relief.

They were crowded off into a spacious vehicle, belted in and served drinks. At least the lights were gone, and that noise had also left along with the photographers. The passing lanterns that seemed to die out when they entered another forest. 

Everyone chatted with themselves and each-other. Natalie and Nox were speaking in a more professional manner whereas Octavio and Ajay laughed about paparazzi outtakes released live, Elliott retorted when Octavio showed a picture of him around. In the dark, a tint of purple blanketing the vehicle, Elliott watched Bloodhound. 

Bloodhound nodded ever so quietly, probably to a song that Elliott wouldn't know. Their raven was asleep, it's head curled in the gap between their mask and suit, it made Elliott very envious and he laughed at the petty retort that his stomach gave him. Bloodhound carved a figurine like none other, this was a usual, it seemed to be their hobby. Elliott was smiling like a dork, but it was masked behind the cover of his phone as he pretended to look through posts.

Groups fell asleep, Natalie now laying across Renee and it definitely wasn't another thing for Elliott to be envious towards. Octavio played some sort of video game on a small console, Ajay complaining about the light. It was only a little after one in the city, it hadn't been long since Elliott was asleep in his room. Outside, it was different, everything inside was controlled. It would be hard to control the whole galaxy, only a small portion of it. 

Bloodhound had pocketed their wooden figurine, which was coming together to form some sort of wolf and they were reading a book, another thing that had been unfamiliar to Elliott. He didn't know people used those anymore, everything was digital or a shiny plastic and they were expensive. Now, he knew that these books were sacred to Bloodhound. Bloodhound had even used their money as a champion to help raise a traditional Library, Elliott couldn't pronounce it's name. 

He yawned into his palm, tired from thinking and watching terrible videos, the vehicle stopped with a loud crackle of its breaks.

The climax had come sooner than expected, sooner than possible, even. This was the VIP experience of the Syndicate. Now, they would be sent off into the dropship, it would be a harsh night in Kings Canyon and then an even harsher week. Elliott was sweating like a pig, his gelled curls of crimson red and dark brown sticking to his forehead, to his goggles, and he was thinking about an early retirement. His body felt lightweight when he stood on the gravel ground of the port, body locked uncomfortably, but he dragged himself along to the line of the boarding chamber. Octavio shouted about getting a move on, complaining endlessly and everyone else seemed in high spirits. Elliott stood behind Bloodhound, any closer and he would be in their fur brace, looking into the eyes of his own death probably. Elliott raised a hand to the velvet, feeling a very real touch of the tinted scarf. Bloodhound couldn't feel it, he hoped at least, but they didn't move in protest and he doubted they thought it as anything more than a passing breeze. He imagined his childhood, a specific but common scheme of him being seen doing something weird and called out by louder children. He ripped his hand away and stuffed it in his pocket, safe, well- he tried to stop a sneeze down his sleeve. Not safe.

"Damnit, my jacket," he sniffed. 

Elliott was covered in a deep blood and they weren't even on the dropship yet. He held a hand over his nose, the blood sifting through crevices between fingers. Ajay scolded him as the line stopped, and she shoved his head backwards, tissues stuffing the holes. Octavio told him to Man up amigo' and Elliott laughed carelessly. Bloodhound turned towards him, their mask watching with big hollow eyes. Then they were disappearing into the aircraft corridors. It was probably better, but Elliott would disagree.

"I owe you one," he said to Ajay. He was confident for a man who had just ruined his whole outfit by sneezing.

Legs up on the small table of the lobby, Elliott whistled a tune and skipped through magazines. A Gif of his smiling mug popped out from the glossy plastic, he grinned at it. Renee was beside him, supplying endless tissues as he wiped dry blood from the black of his jacket as though it mattered. He wasn't bright enough to understand that the jacket would end up dirty nevertheless, forgot that he was headed into a battle against the woman that was helping him with easy conversation. He told terrible jokes about how she was getting old, who would he hang out with when she was retired with kids and her wife? This was the trend lately, because without the Apex games, they didn't have much in common except endless devotion for one another. She laid a hand on his wiped shoulder.

"Listen, Mirage. If you need it, I'll take it easy, you're not yourself lately. Seriously, I'll try to avoid you."

Her voice was always nice, not in the same way as Bloodhound's used to be, it was precise. She knew what she was saying, planned it in her head before the words ever left her mouth, it sounded good. Natalie was a lucky woman, Elliott? Well… 

"What, you would cheat for me? I'm flattered! Really," He scoffed and grinned in her direction, she frowned, "Nah. if you're fine then I'm also fine, kinda. Just make sure to buy me a drink when this is over."

"Me and Nat` are getting married next week," she ushered nearly as though a secret.

"Then bring her with you! I'll charm her as well- and about that suit, blue? Really?" Truthfully, he envied Renee, but knew that such a public relationship wasn't the way for him. Elliott was far too young for marriage. He didn't blame her, even if it was annoying, it had been the same when his brothers had grown out of childhood games. Strolling around with girlfriends, boyfriends, then they were all married and then they were gone. Elliott and Renee continued talking, laughing, responding to mysterious looks at one another.

Elliott smacked her on the back with a huff, going to get fully equipped.

The paths towards each chamber were decorated with confetti, completely different to how they looked last season. Elliott smiled at the garnish of champions, finding the picture of his first win, full of blood and alone in the tattered jumpsuit that his mother had made him. His eyes were hollow with a realisation, he was afraid of death and was probably shaking, the thought made him laugh because he didn't want to break down randomly from the trauma. He poked the image with his finger and made a generic Boop' sound before moving on.

Elliott's door was old, it was covered in stickers and cutouts of himself. A clown nose, Bamboozle merchandise that he had gotten for free, artwork from fans. Truly at home, the wooden surface and that nasty shade of blue were completely lost by now. It was next to Ajay's room, he hummed along to the music blaring through the metal floorboards and pipes. 

Clicks from his many buckles and belts never ceased to satisfy him. His climbing harness tugging around a firm behind uncomfortably, his many jokelines not fitting down the crevices of his sleeve and even just his custom shoulder pads that were a bit bigger than he remembered them being. Elliott sighed at the sight, he was attractive, anyone would give him that. Attractive, hot, he turned around swiping hair from his face. "Hey there, good-looking," He said to himself.

Elliott wore a lesser pair of goggles as he worked on his holographic gear, the fake pair were still on his forehead. It cracked as he burnt the edges, tugging it down his hand beside the watch and microchip transmitter. With a flick of his wrist, the room came alight and a modified version of himself shone brightly.

"Damn, hey there good lookin`" The hologram mimicked with little error.

Elliott's door shut after momentary protest, the hinge refusing to settle. He was out, skipping in his black boots, and he nearly missed a turn in such a vast Aircraft. The billboards appeared with a ping, and the counter started. Pathfinder found him, Elliott didn't need help looking for Bloodhound, he seemed like more of a tracker than them as he always seemed to know their location. He wrapped his arm around their neck and grinned at their lack of protest, after fighting in a deadly tournament, Most of the legends were alarmed by physical touch. Not Bloodhound, and he could hear their breathing low upon his ears, thick beard to bristle nesting on their shoulder. Pathfinder was doing the same to Elliott, definitely nothing personal.

They were in chambers, their jetbags beginning to hover from the ground that was opening towards the steep night of Kings Canyon.

Renee and Octavio were taunting each-other, One, the intercom woman announced.

Two, Elliott re-swallowed a flower.

Three, they graced for the fall.


	5. A hollow, piercing silence

The midnight breeze rang through Elliott's ears, driving a Trident with open windows was the only thing that could somewhat resemble skydiving. Everyone made noise in their groups as the steep terrain passed downboard, Mirages' team had waited till most of the others were gone before leaving the comfort of the airlift. Elliott shouted into the nighttime, embracing Decoys that crumbled from the pressure of falling. Having fun before he needed to kill alongside his friends. Getting closer to the ground, his jets manoeuvring him around taller buildings. Parted from the splitting three, Elliott watched as Bloodhound's silhouette disappeared along with the knowing clench in his stomach. He arrived close to an old Hut.

Elliott's legs gripped to the sandy grounds with unrealistic force, no threat of breaking, no realistic tension between his feet and the floor and he huffed a sigh of relief.

"Whoah," He rubbed his face. 

Elliott navigated well, this was not his first time traveling the Frontier. Through his headset, Bloodhound was solemn and sometimes pathfinder previewed the zip code of items and sent a Ping. Elliott cursed the technology nonetheless, for every grunt, sigh or muttered word was recorded and as long as he was unoccupied he could hear Bloodhound through the radio.

Humming as he shuffled through bins, Elliott gathered the best guns that he could find, a G7scout and a Prowler with no hop-ups. He also found syringes, some of the dirty needles prickling his fingertips and drawing blood. He made a quick ow` and sucked them till it stopped. 

With a lantern to light his way, Elliott navigated through smaller rooms. The moonlight got through cracks in the wall, it shone off of his gear and sharply curved across his bearded cheekbones. Pathfinder was in the building beside him, at least, he hoped that it was Pathfinder who was foraging back there. He knew that Bloodhound was more quiet, if they were there than he would know. A hand pressed his shoulder-

Elliott turned quickly, his eyes sharp and his nostrils flared in fear. He couldn't die this soon, not after so much preparation! Elliott grabbed the wrist and twisted it towards a breaking motion, darkness covering the view but he stopped before it bent around his knee. 

A lantern dangled over his head, emitting soft orange towards his unexpected companion. It was Bloodhound.

"Shit, you scared me! I'm not easily scared, damnit." He wiped sweat from his brow and sighed in relief, Bloodhound pulled their arm back and sprawled a bag of supplies on the moulding spruce.

There were energy bars; the type that tasted like chalk, modifications for guns and ammo, Bloodhound enjoyed gathering everything for their teammates.

Elliott grabbed a Hop-up for his Prowler along with a heavy Mag and pressed them into place.

"Thanks, I owe you one." Bloodhound nodded in reply, picking the drafted supplies back up to show Pathfinder, they left in silence just as they had come. Elliott coughed up a laugh at their bizarreness and got on with his looting.

Bloodhound was always away, but Elliott knew that they would return if something felt wrong. They just preferred the vast forests full of kits, going down bunkers. Bloodhound was quiet, they lacked a sense of playfulness that Elliott Made up for. Pathfinder was also independent, he found higher bins in trees and on roofs. He was a scout and so was Bloodhound, so they both naturally covered more ground than Elliott.

"Hey, guys, can we uh- stick together?"

Pathfinder replied with enthusiasm, They were all Back as a group quickly, Bloodhound appearing in their might from the forests, their arms full and beautifully colored guns on their back. Pathfinder dropped down and Elliott flinched as the metal of a hand gripped his elbow. He wished that Bloodhound would do that, and they made eye contact through the mask and goggles. Elliott weakly waved in greeting, a bright smile on his face and Bloodhound Nodded at his efforts. God, they were heavy with weapons, a sniper gun and some sort of shotgun that weighed down on their shoulders. Somehow they still managed to stay upright, hands at their sides or dangling from the edge of their belts. He really wanted to hug them in this chilly weather, it was only the first game and he was already getting needy. 

Elliott couldn't see much else beyond their figure, which could easily lead to a swift death. Nights were terrible but at least Pathfinder was like a beacon with his shiny body reflecting any brightness, this was another thing that could prove to be dangerous.

They walked paths and split to search upon abandoned villages.

Team Pathfinder had landed in the outskirts around Containment, through the night they traveled up the muddy hills. Bloodhound's distant chatting had echoed like the humming of a bird as they passed the Leviathans, they spoke towards those creatures. Elliott thought that it was odd, but also decided that an Eco-friendly trait of sorts was attractive. Why he hadn't noticed it before was a mystery.

The team encountered enemy footsteps as they moved up a building on a hillside, paths from the Bunker and down to Bridges. They led to nowhere. 

In the early morning, darkest before the light, the team foraged equipment in Market, but other teams had beat them there. More Crows fled the area. 

Bloodhound's goggles glinted red, and they pulled Elliott backwards as he went to open a door.

"Létta, somebody is here--" they whispered into their wrist, but Elliott could hear the less grainy version from a breath away. Their hand left Elliott with a flick of his eye.

"--Pathfinder, stay observant from above." 

Everyone was quiet, the fluttering of birds had also stopped, only the noise of synthetic crickets. 

Bloodhound rolled to the other side of their wall, eyes scanning the floor as they pulled a clean Battle-axe from their belt.

Elliott looked around, sending treading decoys to set off a clear coast. Bloodhound pointed directions with their gloved hands and Elliott complied with nods and signs of his own. 

He walked towards the passageway, up a staircase. 

He looked back for Bloodhound, they were gone.

Gunshots rang, Elliott watched the heavy treading about on the roof.

"I downed one!" Pathfinder said almost happily, the treading had ceased after one final crash.

Bloodhound's grunts rang through Elliott's wrist, they wielded their axe with might that made his heart pump quicker just with sound. Elliott sprinted up, gripping his SMG.

Quick running turned his attention back around, Octane pulled a syringe out of his chest and shot at Elliott simultaneously.

Elliott grinned, a decoy moving to gather some bullets before crumbling. He closed the distance, the loud shots running deep within his canals, he kneeled towards walls of scrap but was caught up with. 

Octane kicked him down a line of broken plastic, reloading. Pathfinder was getting close, his zip lines breaking as he ran through an open door. There came more loud shouts as Bloodhound battled out, occasionally shooting their Peacekeeper.

Elliott's fingers burnt as he pushed another clip into place, he took this moment of distraction to slide from the floor and wall that he was backed against and spread himself out into a Decoy party.

Octane looked back up and shot out, laughing as though it was a game. Elliott aimed at his stomach, ripping through the cropped shirt but received heavy hits to his knees in return after revealing himself. If he could keep this up, perhaps his teammates would get here, but the same went for the enemy.

One side of shooting ceased, Elliott's Prowler followed Octane, who complained something at the device on his wrist, towards cover. He threw a grenade at Elliott, but thankfully it rolled down a corner slope and missed his feet. Elliott moved towards the loud sprint, but Octane was gone.

Pathfinder came running, Elliott backed himself into a dark storage room and groaned as he slid to the floor.

"Don't worry Mirage! We may not have won, but I managed to kill one of their members." He seemed so happy about it, his frame jumping as Elliott pulled a syringe out of his backpack. 

"That was a good fight. Damn Path, remind me not to get on your bad side!" He bit a growing hole in his mouth and cringed at the ones in his leg. It would heal within minutes, but it still looked gross, the floor visible behind thickening blood.

Bloodhound's faint footsteps turned to the cover, they gripped the doorframe and observed their teammates.

"Next time we meet, they can only wish for a merciful getaway," it was said in their usual manner, soft and humble, but the contents sounded darker. Elliott looked at their mask and traveled down to their tattered boots, it reminded him of the meeting in Pathfinders house, the same glance. Elliott coughed, then he laughed, luckily he could blame the blood in his palm on his amazing skills of war.

Bloodhound leaned on the wall opposite from Elliott, they passed him a stick.

"Wha- what's this for, Hound?" He perked an amused grin, they raised it to his face.

"Chew it, your wounds are harsh. Infections aren't out of question," they gestured at his lip. Did they focus on his lip a lot?

Oh. Elliott snickered, but he continued to think deeply. Did they keep random sticks in their pockets? Where was it from? Had Bloodhound ever chewed on it? His cheeks flushed a deep red at the idea, down into a mess between his teammates. Only Elliott could think that he was smooth at hiding his business crush.

"This thing? No, nah, I don't need it for now! Damn, I'll keep it anyway." 

Bloodhound nodded in dismissal when he stuffed it down his pocket, they all healed up. Elliott laughed about the enemies and pathfinder played along.

The sun was forming over tall buildings beyond the horizon, overpowering surrounding cold. The team appeared out of the large Market building and walked towards mountains over sandy roads. Elliott put a hand over his face to shield his eyes but still managed to let out a yawn. Pathfinder was a robot, his retinal equipment making a nearly inaudible shuffle as the shiny dots readjusted and Bloodhound's goggles were a harsh white from the reflecting light, they looked up to a flock of passing crows. This was the stop and Bloodhound let out a sigh as their bags hit the ground, sitting down on a passing rock. Elliott walked towards the figure, watching the way their mask wandered from his face to the clouds beside. So thoughtful, Elliott wouldn't be surprised if Bloodhound was a god from some faraway land.

He sat down on a similar sized boulder, his hand leaning close to Bloodhound's gun, he whistled at the heights of the hillside view.

Pathfinder mimicked Elliott, his legs folding neatly on the floor in front of them. Elliott grinned, the wrinkles around his eyes pinching. He wrapped his arms around Pathfinders metal shoulders and they both laughed, a distraction, and Elliott shared praise to which Bloodhound hummed in agreement. Everyone somewhat liked Pathfinder, even them, it was nearly like adoring the younger brother that he never had. Elliott wondered if Bloodhound had any siblings.

When he pressed the tech on his wrist, but as an encryption code came up and it lagged to a weird-green symbol, he blew a raspberry. Bloodhound and pathfinder were also loading their holographic maps, Elliott had a choice of one or the other. He bit his lip -lightly, as not to worry- in thought and looked between the two, he didn't want to insult anyone; well… this wasn't his real process of thought and action, because he didn't really have one and leaned over Bloodhound without thinking twice. Bloodhound smelt like the river that they had passed, not very pleasant, but Elliott's senses were clouded with his own imagination and the faint taste of dandelion dust in his throat. They didn't move their head away from his own, Elliott's loose hair brushing their charms and Elliott tried to hide his self inflicted embarrassment in a fake concentration towards the map. He gulped loudly, probably loud enough for any enemies to hear, definitely for Bloodhound to notice the yarn in his throat at eye level. 

They planned their next move.

Elliott's team would close in on the Cage, as did the ring. Old footprints covered the grounds, both ways, another stale trail. There were thirteen teams left, thirty-two enemies, whatever happened to Octane and his surviving teammate was a mystery, whether they ran into another team or got to safety, at least one of the remaining teams was down in numbers. 

The Apex league was split between giant regions that were entirely fictional and only a base for keeping personalities together. It was not a question of whether you won - because winning factions usually got more funding - it was a question of whether your region would take the prize. 

The danger was unfamiliar enemies, with no lead to their tactics. It could be an idiot with a giant machine gun for all they knew, some kid with a drone, anything. Luckily, a majority of them had ratted their way from the slums of battle and were inexperienced. At least Elliott wasn't really killing them, those lucky bastards.

Sand piled at the side of rocks, crumbling dryly.

Pathfinder found a hidden cave, it was a bit of a hike, but the climb was safer than creating a Zipline. Shaded, the cave sloped inwards and made them barely visible from below. Elliott dropped his equipment on the floor, the team would sleep.

Bloodhound took the first shift. Elliott insisted to do it instead, even beyond his own desire and Bloodhound wouldn't back down. The useless aluminium blankets were unnecessary since the sun created immense heat that somehow found a way into the shaded cave. Elliott lay snug, readjusting his head on his backpack attractively. The sun from outside hit his face, trailing down locks of colored hair and soft against his beard.

Bloodhound watched, just as expected. They cleaned their weapons and hiking equipment, legs readjusting sometimes. Pathfinder recharged in a corner, his camera lenses shut and a sleeping emoticon on his screen, very weird. Elliott didn't sleep, couldn't sleep. He felt his whole body tingling, perhaps from the fight earlier on or maybe because Bloodhound sometimes lingered their mask on his shutting eyelids.

Not long after, perhaps five minutes, "You may not get another chance to rest your eyes."

Elliott blinked into focus, Bloodhound a small frame at the side of camp. For once, he hadn't been thinking about them, but being alone with someone in this position was both enjoyable and painful.

"Yeah? I'll take my chances,"

They turned around now, goggles aimed at him. They grabbed their equipment and crawled closer, he smiled.

The teammates shared conversation and although it felt like forever, time didn't always pass right when you were in love. Bloodhound praised Elliott's fight and he laughed, eyed reaching the floor at the thought of their tired Huffing. the trek, the morning, the enemies. 

Bloodhound made one last hum of tranquility.

They told Elliott to get some sleep.

Elliott shook his head, dissatisfied.

Bloodhound nodded, sighing. Boots digging within the gravel sands, they pat his shoulder in dismissal. Soon enough, a small vibration signalled the end of thirty minutes.

Elliott took the second shift, yawning two seconds into the silence. He was regretting his decisions, which didn't happen often, perhaps it was all this free time. Maybe he should've slept instead of watching Bloodhound, should have rested instead of somehow hoping that they take their mask off or rub his face. Now Bloodhound was asleep, because although they had offered to take his shift so that he could make up for the lost time of rest, he denied the desire just as strongly as they had. Bloodhound rarely moved when they were asleep, their body sloped on their own backpack in a sitting position. Sometimes a leg twitched, or their shoulders moved up and down, but never a noise, the open-eyed goggles of their mask making it creepy to a degree. 

They slept without gloves, cobweb scars trailing into their sleeves that Elliott wished on as though a shooting star. He could imagine those long eyelashes of theirs blinking sleepily, his throat dry, he didn't dare cough.

Elliott drew on his maroon backpack, inky black ooze bleeding out from the letters and making a mush of scribble, it looked like blood. Elliott cringed at his wicked association. 

Jokes and just random thoughts, he wondered if those translucent drones that he had helped design were filming the team. Was it normal for someone to be so focused on a celebrity that they could carelessly watch them sleep?

Pathfinder jumped up with another vibration, legs making mechanical sprints that sounded animated. He was last, his electricity not cut out for waking and then re-dropping only twenty minutes apart. He made a fake yawn noise, arms above his head and smiled.

"It's about time you woke up, path!" And then he laughed and stretched, "I'm just kidding--"

The two awoken had switched, pathfinder and Elliott spoke for a minute or two as they switched information. No, no teams around. Didn't hear a thing if I'm honest, thirty minutes till the ring moves, damn, that's some good timing. 

Pathfinder laughed that generic robot laugh of his, made a terrible joke that they both found funny. Elliott tried to sleep.

It felt a little suffocating, if he was honest. Pathfinder at one side and Bloodhound on the other. Clouds hiding the sun so that everything was a deep blue, officially daytime.

Elliott tousled, why wasn't he sleeping? twenty-five minutes left.

He sighed, Bloodhound was asleep, he wasn't trying to impress. Twenty. 

"Why are you still awake, Mirage?"

Elliott bit the side of his lip. Pathfinder made another joke, he has learnt a lot from Elliott. 

"I dunno, hah, this sucks." Flat, the conversation just didn't flow.

Pathfinder seemed to go silent, retina flicking from corner to corner, he made restless punches. Elliott fell asleep, he didn't dream.

With a gasp, he awoke seventeen minutes later.

More walking. The team was still headed for their target and they stopped at muddy bridges towards old buildings. Elliott switched his Scout out for an R301 and found a Heavy Mag, Bloodhound took it with a steady reply, Elliott choked on his words. Pathfinder sometimes conjured a Zipline, but it only spread the tiredness from his legs to his arms for a couple of seconds. 

It was a natural occurrence for conversation to flow, small topics like the changes this year, the weather. It was meaningful, nonetheless, because as Bloodhound moved their head joyfully, he felt the warmth, felt the cauldron in his chest overflowing. Pathfinder laughed along and Elliott pouted when his teammates entered a conversation about Raven birds, not as interesting. Perhaps because Bloodhound looked at Pathfinder in the same way that they watched him, his stomach grumbled. He wasn't special, not to them like they were to him, Elliott grinned at a joke in his head, not yet! Have patience! and then he retorted that it had already been a year.

Pathfinder swung above a pile of rocks, but upon meeting the ground, he rolled behind a hill. 

"Look over there friends! Somebody is answering our calls!" Elliott frowned, his feet hurt too much for this. Three enemies, seeming to be from the same team.

They hadn't been noticed yet, now it came down to whether Elliott's team fought or fled the scene.

Bloodhound scanned the arena, climbing above a boulder and leaning their Sentinel on its edge. One crisp shot and the enemies ran to shelter like scattering ants, Bloodhound had fully pierced someone's armour. The team exchanged sparse gunfire for a while.

Bloodhound stood up, switching guns.

"They are running low, let's go."

"Uh, right, this falls on you, unless we win, right, then it falls on me," his teammates were already gone.

The enemy team was distracted, hiding behind their own pile of debris. Elliott created a decoy, the laughing mechanism moving towards unsuspecting enemies.

All three of them had shot, which gave Elliott basic information. At least one was using a shotgun, two had LMG weapons. One was a steady shooter and the other two hit blanks towards the air. Most importantly, the team was uncoordinated. 

Elliott was confident, and from the grip that Bloodhound had on their gun at a distant ledge, he could tell that they were as well. Pathfinder didn't even need reassurance, what a great team, they all worked well together.

"One down!" Pathfinder said. This wasn't fair, robots shouldn't be able to--

A bullet passed through Elliott's shoulder, goddamn, he raised his Prowler and fired blind bursts. A kid, scruffy with tattered hair and faded tattoos. He looked afraid, a glint in his eye, perhaps he nearly died in a past non-Champion tournament. It reminded Elliott of the dirt that he had covered himself in, back before he was a winner. At least Elliott wouldn't have any blood on his hands, well… nobody was dying, not for good anyway. Elliott ducked and evaded, blood filtering through the red of his suit, trickling down his abdomen like the water in his shower only yesterday.

They passed shots for a few long moments.

Elliott bit his lip and reloaded the weapon for a third time, debating, perhaps he could change to his second gun which had a slower rate of fire but an equal amount of heat, it would be too late now. The boy flipped, pulling something out of his pocket, something bright. They shot some more, the boy getting weaker. Elliott stopped, he wanted to be impressed, to see something cool happen.

Another sharp Sentinel shot rang feet from him.

Elliott watched his young enemy crumble, first dropping to thin knees before a heavy head hit the ground. A head with a hole between afraid eyes.

Elliott stood, his breath loud, he was supposed to be relieved, but he wasn't. Why wasn't Elliott relieved?

"Hey! That was mine, Bloodhound!" he shouted but it was void of his fierce personality. He didn't really care, not for another kill on his belt, he wanted to go back home and cry to his mother, he wanted to-

Bloodhound huffed and Pathfinder was so away, distant and distracted by more gunshots. Bloodhound was… they were kneeling, the wood of their pads was digging through the dirt and their chest seemed full of beautiful roses. 

Elliott shifted to reality, he raised his full gun, shifted the fire to Auto and shot a man with a thick beard in the hip. It didn't stop, the air surrounding him turning an airy pink, he grimaced at the taste of copper in his mouth and at the returning shots.

One more for the head, his instinct shouted and then another enemy was falling backwards.

Elliott ran to Bloodhound. He wanted to help, but they were in the fields of dirt and more teams surrounded his own.

Pathfinder swung back around, Elliott gripped his fallen teammate's shoulder, looking at the holes in their suit but not because he was distracted by his own desire; He looked at the thick tears in this person's armour, at the shiny spotted steel.

The three of them fled to safety, hiding in a tunnel once used to carry supplies.

"So no Cage then," Elliott observed dumbly, using the last of his spirit to help Bloodhound up. Somehow now that the battle was over, he could differentiate between his Hanahaki and the hollow bullets that hadn't passed both sides.

Bloodhound turned from their team, perhaps they wanted privacy, the thought of such a thing made Elliott laugh.

"If our enemies fight, we can reclaim it after they are worn out! One team is already down, congratulations friends, we have killed some more!" And everything pathfinder said was just an elated statement of facts, so Elliott didn't know why it hit so hard.

His fake smile was shaky.

The retrieved bullets made high notes as they dropped to the metal plates, Bloodhound only let out shaky Huffs as they did it. Elliott could ask if they needed help, but it would also cause a further swelling of his heart. Did he want that? Well… not really, but if the monkey itched it's friends back the friend could clean it's fur in return and Elliott had an uncomfortable lead in his shoulder that he didn't trust Pathfinder with. Of course, it hadn't bothered him until he needed a reason.

"Hey, Bloodhound--" Elliott reached to cuff their arm but hesitated. "-- you need any help, bud, I mean, with your back?"

Elliott had brought doom upon himself, and sometimes doom looked like the fluster on his face as he listened to Bloodhound's breathing and used tweezers to pull the metal from inside their skin. Through the big tearing, he could notice reddish spots on their pale skin, he wanted to massage those worn shoulders of theirs.

After fighting in The Apex, Elliott had a somewhat desperate sense of romance. His throat became dry as he made conversation with Bloodhound and laughed at their nods or replies, trying to distract them with terrible jokes and smiling because he could even get a person as stern as them to let out airy chuckles.

Bloodhound had sensitive fingertips, Elliott could tell from the precision when they returned the favour and picked metal from deep within his shoulder blade. His mother had always said that he was steady, hands knowing how to grip tiny parts and put them together. He could feel the fur of their brace against his back, maybe they wouldn't notice if he leaned into their touch.

The team healed furthermore, as much as possible with the stress of a team seeing the light or hearing the syringes, gunshots atop the hill continued. They circled around, the sun going down early, and found a tiny hut to hide and rest. 

Then, just as short as expected, the first day ended.


	6. A Chest of rare orchid

Elliott is helping Bloodhound clean their wounds, rubbing iodine through their suit and down a harsh back. He has taken his gloves off and their scars run past his fingertips. It is quick and then completely over, but in Elliott's mind it had lasted much longer. It is hot in the enclosed hideout, physically warm and Elliott can feel himself quickly flip around.

He grips at the force but his hands are being pushed back, he smiles.

"Buh- Bloodhound? Oh. okay." Elliott feels that familiar pain in his stomach, feels his spine down below, his tongue in his throat. Bloodhound is now against him, in the small tunnel. their arms trace down his muscles, up his legs. Perhaps they are returning the favour, but Elliott doesn't recall feeling punctures through his thighs.

"Bloodhound, are you, do you--" Elliott can't speak because his throat is dry from nettles. Soon enough, he can't speak because Bloodhound is kissing him, only nodding at their low request of consent. He hadn't looked up in time to see their face, a pity, they kiss in experience. It feels amazing, their raspy taste and the heat constricting below his shut eyes. It feels like a dream, their body against his, their hand letting go of his elbow so that he can move fingers down their built frame. 

They pull apart for air, Elliott can't see their face, buzzing with particles from the smokey air.

Bloodhound pulls away from his body as well soon enough, their mask is back down under the ceiling of lights that Elliott doesn't remember being there, he has yet to stop his heavy breathing.

He reaches out again.

Bloodhound turns to leave and Elliott wants to beg for them to stay, he wants to pull them back in. 

He can't speak, but can't shut his mouth around a thick rose bud. He breathes a whistle through a nose of growing thorns. Everything fades into a lesser focus, his hands reaching for theirs, the tunnel turns into a white room.

Elliott feels himself becoming lighter--

With five breathless heaves, Elliott awoke in the dark of a wooden cabin, at nighttime, covered in sweat and blood. This was not the perfect time for him to be having borderline dreams, especially not when they always ended up turning towards a nightmare of sorts.

"Goddamnit," he wiped his face, hopefully he could calm down before the others stirred into a familiar lucidity. Elliott went for a walk around camp, gun around his hip, on weak alert.

The water made a loud splash against the skin of his cheeks, he rubbed it up the bridge of his nose, below his eyes, through his hair. 

His body felt lesser than normal, probably because he had just finished sulking below the building, hoping that there weren't any cameras focusing on the overturning stomach appearing out from his lips. Sometimes he wanted good dreams, like when he was stuck thinking about being held at gunpoint or tortured with a slow suffocation, but they were preferred at home. Maybe just lonely, thinking that a dream was better than nothing, he was more than familiar with the presence of Bloodhound within his thoughts. Fabrication nonetheless, it was just sliced content from one night stands and Romance movies, recycled and refused into something else. Elliott couldn't complain, it had only gone to shit because of this fucking Hanahaki.

The burning lanterns above the walking trail accentuated his shadow, a frame that was easy for anyone passing to notice. Luckily, a majority of the enemies came to a civil agreement of rest at night. Only caustic would make Elliott travel around in those rainy hours.

Elliott didn't hear any footsteps, it could make him a sitting duck to Wraith or Bloodhound, or even Octane if he was trying hard enough. His hearing wasn't model, probably from explosions and unprotected gunfire. 

Within this principle, Elliott flinched backwards at the sudden noise of a voice, Caught off guard as he tried to clean the nosebleed from his hands. He fell, his ass kissing the muddy floor in defeat, that's gonna stain.

He wasn't frightened, well… that was a lie, but it wasn't in the literal sense. He was afraid of what could happen now, afraid of facing Bloodhound. 

"You are an idle target for anything that passes--" Bloodhound said in a familiar tone of soft scolding. They kneeled beside Elliott, in a shaded spot with their Peacekeeper snug between arms and their masked head leaning on a hand. "--but, I can only wonder why you aren't utilizing this time to sleep."

Elliott smirked sheepishly, he itched at his beard. what could he say? Oh, yeah I just had a weird nightmare where we kissed and then I died?

Bloodhound's body never stayed still, perhaps they were energetic like Octane or maybe anxious like Elliott. They stroked the wet dirt and sand around the water.

"Is it your Hanahaki?" They asked and he wondered how they knew, god, did they know who it was? Elliott laughed to hide his face, slightly aware of how unconvincing he sometimes sounded.

"What? Uh, no! Nightmares, that's all, yeah." 

"Vëll, you must be suffering from some harsh nights," they nodded in observation and let Elliott wallow in deserved self pity: "Yeah, tell me about it, hah."

The two dwelled in momentary silence, Elliott searched around as to not focus on his rapidly beating heart.

"Mirage, remember that we are allies, felagi--" They stopped for air, Elliott finally looked across, he reached deep into those goggles with his soft eyes. "--you may come to me with your problems, or with pastime. I will always be of comfort." It nearly felt like a peace offering, Elliott let out another chuckle, Bloodhound had killed him many times and he had done to them the same. He was a fool, perhaps, because he couldn't realise that Bloodhound was searching out a companionship; That this person was reincorporating his feelings to some extent, and this same naivety was causing his physical symptoms and could eventually lead to his final death.

Bloodhound's arm rested on his shoulder, nearly weightless, but Elliott's lungs felt as heavy as rocks. They muttered something foreign, Elliott's grin was lovestruck, his eyes back on the water, his cheeks as red as roses. He wanted to kiss them like they had him in that bittersweet dream.

They moved away and stood up, and when they offered a firm hand for Elliott, He took it with no second thoughts. His pulse was in his wrist and throat and torso.

"It's clean, right?" Elliott turned and asked, pointing at his trousers. Bloodhound took a look at his behind, he didn't have any proof, but it felt like they did… they nodded a yes, Elliott laughed, he kept the joke on his tongue because it would make a worse situation from these scraps that were left.

Elliott got scolded by Pathfinder when he opened the wooden cabin door, what could he say, that Tin-can had learnt all of Renee's bad habits. He felt a faction better after laughing at Bloodhound, who also seemed to have snuck out. That was… he supposed he would save that thought for the next time he was laying in his bed.

"Well I guess we can carry on, since we are already awake! Are you friends ready?"

The group got their backpacks together and resumed the travel, perhaps they could circle the remaining enemies around Cage.

Now at ten teams, the ring continued to get smaller.

"I called it!" Elliott huffed a smirk as the digital Banners shifted from an old face to that of Natalie Paquette, she didn't look far off from a kid. Wattson was the new kill leader with four kills on her belt and three assists, her team consisted of Caustic and Wraith, their poses moving on the screens. Somehow she always managed to overthrow Octane in the late game, and Mirage could relate to the guy, she had done it to him as well. Probably because of the strategy, her big brained actions were only leveled down by her trusted Teammates, and Octane also usually died early on after rampaging. God knows why her trio was fighting at night, he hoped they didn't bump into each other.

So the three of Pathfinders' team were hiking. It seemed that they could climb a mountain and then Zipline up to the room atop Cage, Bloodhound had a sniper, so they could watch and secure, Elliott could gather resources and bring them upstairs. As their team scaled the steep walk, Elliott thanked the darkness for hiding his sweaty face from Bloodhound. They were outlined by the moon.

He thanked Pathfinder for the Zipline, yawning when he dropped on the steel floors of the building.

"Sleep only when we reach the peak," Elliott didn't understand that. Was the team gonna sleep? Wouldn't that be a bit stupid?

They both clinged to a Zipline when Bloodhound's scan came out empty, it pulled them to the one room with barred and open walls on three sides that looked like fences. Pathfinder had pulled himself around in a stunt.

Pathfinder's job was to locate the next ring, he stood immobile, out in the open and it would be that way for a good half an hour. Generally, they were at a newly refreshed second ring, it seemed to be heading north. There were seven hours till it got smaller, it would be good if their team lucked out and the game ended around them. If luck and faith didn't come to favor, the moment it got to the fifth ring and entered whichever direction, Caustic's team would've secured a room full of gas and fences. Luckily, while they got two defenders, Elliott got two scouts.

Elliott wanted to hug Bloodhound, to smile at them in hopes for a kiss, but that was a thought that occupied most of his free time. He settled at leaning an arm on them since the two were close in height, he fixed his hair for a few minutes and they laughed together --not really, only Elliott laughed-- about these ridiculous circumstances and how everything was going in their favour; of course, he used simpler words. Bloodhound spoke about how their Allfather was guiding this team to a win. Elliott still had a hard time believing it, his eyes shimmered with diamonds as he navigated the scars and sparse moles in the small gap between their turtleneck undershirt and mask. There was always more space as their mask angled up at one side, Bloodhound was watching Flyers flapping around the slowly-dropping moon. Elliott let out a sigh, smiling, but he could feel his Hanahaki creating a stitch within his empty stomach. 

He let out another yawn.

"Mirage, sleep." 

"What? No, I'm fine, you guys need me!"

Bloodhound's mask was no longer aimed at the sky, they nodded at him and it nearly felt like they had moved closer.

"You will be of more use if you are focused, depend on us to watch out." They pulled their own aluminium blanket out and gestured for Elliott to take it, he gulped loudly and contemplated.

looking Bloodhound over again he thought, were his eyebags visible? Did he still look good? Was Bloodhound worried for the team or for his health? Elliott grabbed the cover, moving his elbow from their shoulder. He looked into the mask once more, and atop the dropping moon, he could see a few dark eyelashes through the tint.

"Uh, thanks. If I die, y'know, well actually… whatever." 

Elliott laid at the far corner, his head on his bag, his body wrapped in Bloodhound's blanket even though he had his own. It smelt like them, Elliott heaved a few times, tousled and turned to try and avoid their surveying figure. He didn't want to sleep, he wanted to get praise from his teammates for finding great loot.

Elliott hoped he wouldn't dream again, but somewhere deep inside, he knew he wanted something good to happen.

As the sun rose, Elliott awoke anxious, how long had he been asleep!? After notifying Bloodhound along with the returned Pathfinder who seemed to be out of luck, he dropped from the room and to the ground level building. He leaned at the side of the slope, he had dreamt something again.

He was no match for Bloodhound and they definitely didn't want him. It was a useless protest and Elliott would probably die a lonely death beside some weird woman from a Bar. Was it smart to confess to them? If Hanahaki was connected to his beliefs, would the illness leave after he was told that Bloodhound only respected him and nothing more. Elliott didn't know that those were the thoughts that were causing this pain, he didn't know shit about anything, although he definitely felt like shit.

Elliott crouched and clutched his stomach, wondering if Bloodhound felt suspicion when Elliott told them that he was going to look around. He was just laying, nauseous, in the open. This continued for a good five minutes, until he stood back up with a grunt and leant on the cold walls.

He found a shotgun barrel, Level Four. When he dropped down and felt his body readjust its insides, he nearly missed the golden backpack on the ground- that's mine! He told himself, although he would certainly enjoy Bloodhound pulling his jacket undone to stick a syringe in his neck, knees on his body and helping him up with a firm hold.

He found two Ultimate Accelerants and thought of Pathfinder.

There were other things, of course. Unnecessary things that he put in his bag just in case, like syringes and some variant Optics. 

At the last corner in the weird cages behind the initial one, Elliott quickly dropped to the floor with a grunt, avoiding the sideway swipe of a knife.

His eyes widened as he rolled to the end and out of sight. This person was smart, they knew that shooting would alert his teammates and opted for hand-to-hand combat. 

Elliott shouted to his wrist intercom, "hey guys? Someone's here, I'll pr- probably be able to deal with her, but I could use some backup!"

This woman was middle aged, her skin around the same shade as Elliott's. She seemed professional, moving around like some ninja from an old action film. Elliott pulled out a small rock he found on the way, flipping it to find the sharpest edge.

Code of conduct was a big thing in Apex Legends, the respect of teammates and of looting, even to fighting random people. If someone was weaponless, Elliott would not pull out a quick trigger and shoot them point blank, he would also not kill a lone survivor.

This woman jumped around and let out low roars, her teeth sharp and her eyes bright. Elliott also moved around, albeit less, his built figure not very flexible. He made up with slides and casted decoys. She hit him, her knife nearly missing but managing a mediocre slip down his arm, blood was flowing through quickly.

Elliott rolled away with her and just as she thought he had ridden herself, Elliott punched the tip of her left hip bone. She thrashed out stray strikes, sometimes whipping some on his flesh apart. After a particularly deep stab, Elliott jumped back, he fell to the floor and continued scrambling.

"Hey, guys! Pathfinder?--" she ran towards him and kicked. Elliott exhaled a breath of bloody spit and clutched his wrist. When she went for another kick, aiming for the unbroken rib below her previous one, atop the stab wound, Elliott managed to roll from under her. His smile was weak, but it was there as he smacked her lower spine with the rock.

She gasped, dropping forwards. Elliott's face was bleeding, his knuckles were red, his breathing harsh through an inward rib subluxation. He swiped his hand down against her neck and cringed at the loud crack, then she was dead on the floor. 

He wanted to laugh, this was what he usually did when he managed to kill someone and felt sweet revenge. He also wanted to cry, he felt his blood pumping fast, he was killing people and it came with self hatred and more anxiety. In the Games, he couldn't know that they were going to come back to life afterwards.

"Hey, guys?" He whispered into his wrist, but there was no reply. Elliott walked back up to the tall Cage as his adrenaline ran out, the fight he had was on the side with the shut walls. Had nobody heard him?

At the break of the highest ladder and about to climb it with his last ounce of power, he turned around. Bloodhound was there, they ran to his side.

"Di, didn't you hear me?" He winced at the trapped muscles in his chest, leaning on the ladder until his body slid to the ground.

"Pathfinder, stay sharp, there may be more teams," They whispered down their wrist.

"I am going to look out for more enemies, I sure hope that Mirage is doing okay!" Elliott let out a weak smile, that dumb robot was far too nice.

He turned his attention back to Bloodhound, their mask didn't express concern, but their voice did. They reached deep into his chest and Elliott looked away, he didn't want to see this, could feel their hands traveling down his hairy abs to find the rib with no care in the world, his throat croaked when they traced the bump beneath torn muscle and ripped his skin and fat open delicately with their knife-

"Mirage, how many did you manage to slatra'?" Oh, that accent.

One. This was the number of ribs that Bloodhound quickly ripped from his body, the crack audible and the pain sinking in a couple seconds later. Elliott didn't manage to bite down on his tongue, Bloodhound took care of him so thoroughly, he hunched around his chest and let out a muffled groan of swears, hands gripping the fabric of Bloodhound's trousers. One was also the last number that Bloodhound probably counted in their head before pulling. Lastly, it was the number of fingers that Elliott held up, all of this for one stupid enemy, he should've just shot her.

Bloodhound wiped the premade syringe on their thigh before jabbing it into Elliott's neckline, below his clavicle bone. He sighed, those painkillers really stopped everything. He was handed the bone for some reason which would grow back in some unrealistic Apex way, looking at it made him gag.

He surveyed his wrist instead.

"Damnit- the team numbers haven't gone down yet. Hey, Hound, help me up-"

The laugh was dry but real. Cackling around the remaining blood in his mouth, it felt weird because of the bark aftertaste, there were also a few missing teeth that'd grow back into a perfect smile.

Bloodhound let out a soft noise, it could've been a huff of relief for his safety, maybe a sigh of annoyance at the remnants, obviously it just sounded like their usual muffle. They towered his sitting body quite a lot, leaning down to wipe something from his face, probably blood, Elliott's heart was beating real fast again, he could tell the shuffle of his stomach from the readjusting bones in his chest. His stab wound was probably gone by now.

Well, they were as hot as ever when they used their muscle to virtually carry Elliott up. They didn't really, it wasn't bridal style or anything, but it still felt good to lean his head on their shoulders.

Upon returning to the roof, he laughed at Pathfinder, clutching his stomach and hoping his beard looked fine. He wished he could have a mirror, but those things could be used as weapons and weren't allowed anymore. Pathfinder jumped around and asked how he was doing frequently, to which he replied:

"fine, well… more than fine, I just won a fist fight with no help, hah." 

On the open side, a bit away, Bloodhound was laying with their mask against the scope of their sniper. They had scanned earlier and found no one.

"Oh, yeah, I got some stuff," a good time to remember the shotgun bolt that made his pants uncomfortable, his team was happy with the supplies.

Pathfinder left to scout the area from above.

Elliott waited for his body to heal at a rapid rate and the moment he could move without any immediate pain, he was at Bloodhound's side. Just like some lovestruck teenagers, a weird one. Their mask didn't move from the newer scope, which Elliott had found.

"You should've seen me, I kicked her ass!" Elliott said with great pride, everyone continued speaking. The sun was up, another day, he had survived this long? Cool, cool, just as expected. Elliott reveled in Bloodhound's rare snickers, his cheeks blossoming a red contour.


	7. Down but don't die

The shooting never ceased. Among so many fighters, even when Elliott and Bloodhound were reloading; when Pathfinder was punching through shields, others still blew their pistols and rifles out at living targets. It was crowded to a point where there was not enough oxygen to go around, or maybe Elliott just couldn't get anything to his lungs through the panic. Eight enemies surrounded each-other, shooting at nobody in specific, they all aimed for the title of a repetitive Champion.

Within this commotion, Elliott had even forgotten the cause for his fighting. did he really need another win on his belt? But then of course, he couldn't let his teammates down. 

There weren't enough decoys to go around the field, as enemies fell, as others were revived. When Elliott aimed his Prowler at Lifeline, at least she didn't know who he was behind the other copies. He could no longer keep up the facade, not good. He couldn't even hear the ringing in his ears anymore, his body covered in so much blood and his nerves couldn't keep up with the pain through so much adrenaline. It was loud in the embrace of the thin ring, yet everything felt airy, as though happening a mile away from him. with three enemy teams and two struggling teammates of his own, but he couldn't handle himself let alone the others. Elliott didn't manage to muster a smile or a joke, nothing except for the stressful glimmer in his eyes.

Elliott didn't know that he was ready. the whole time that he had been sitting on the mountaintop, he was thinking so. Of course he could stand with his chest puffed out pridefully, telling everyone that he was the best fighter and that if he lost it was because of a stutter, it was a lie.

In front with his legs dangling from the edge, Elliott hoped that he looked good for the camera. With Bloodhound focused on aiming their heavy sniper and Pathfinder busy surveying the opposite side of the view, they would hopefully be discarded as boring content. 

When Elliott missed his palm, the discarded rib bone that he had been fidgeting with fell. It skipped across his thigh and down rocks. Elliott didn't try reaching out, he only watched it cascade down towards an oblivion. 

Deep beneath renewed muscle and scarring, the cartilage had returned to its original place. Just above a few pea-like scars, it felt stiff within its place, firmer than the older bones. When Elliott unzipped the side of his suit to take a look at the skin, he wondered if Bloodhound was watching. Rubbing at the lines and spots a few times, these new scars were bumpy and a bright pink bordering on purple beneath dark hair. It didn't matter how many times he looked in the mirror and called himself a fighter, they would always be ugly. Luckily a majority of them seemed to go away after the game ended. Honestly, he was thankful to not have a giant hole from all the sniping headshots that Bloodhound had hit in the past.

Pathfinder's team had fled to a mountaintop near Cage after failing to find the remaining teammates of Elliott's victim. Her body probably lay in that ditch, beginning to decompose beneath the sun. Succumbing to the unnatural process, would she be afraid when she awoke in that hospital bed? If she awoke there… It was absurd, but she still had a chance. The trio were hardly focused, Pathfinder distracted by passing insects and even Bloodhound didn't seem as sharp as usual. There were a few more Respawn beacons and still time left to try and call down a ship, it was just a question of bravery and commitment. Somewhere, Elliott thought about the one unlucky time he was Respawned, there was nothing as painful as pulling yourself up on undead feet, a tiring match for everyone involved. 

Elliott had a lot on his mind. As the sun hid behind clouds in a facade on the one dimensional forcefield, he felt the momentary breeze sift through his curls. Did Bloodhound disregard Elliott's face when he was nearly dead? The two would be barely comparable, Elliott was stuck remembering their every moment together. He wondered if they even gave the occurrence a second thought, And then, had Pathfinder forgiven Elliott's vain behaviour? Was their friendship real, or was the robot aware of how terrible Elliott felt whenever his jokes didn't land. Was he just acting for the sake of peace? Did Pathfinder think of Elliott as the terrible person that he really was? 

It probably sounded stupid, making unnecessary worries and Elliott dismissed everything that came up without even telling himself that the thoughts were wrong. Nothing mattered, especially not when they were just a bunch of strangers fighting in a bloodsport. Elliott just had to sort himself out and get a nice wife, settle down, forget this career and get on with bartending. He smirked at that idea, eyes heavy, he would never forget this shitshow. From a medical standpoint, he would also probably die before forgetting about Bloodhound… 

Elliott's wristband vibrated, the screen appearing, he sighed out of his semi consciousness. After six hours closing in on the forests and grass, burning at ankles, the forcefield had moved in fully. Now, the holographic image above Elliott's wrist showed the borders of the third ring. Elliott blew a raspberry.

It seemed that luck was anything but on their side. This third ring reached just around Bunker and North-west towards The Pit. Essentially, they could either cut straight upwards, through open space and towards Pits, or they could pull the bandaid off and enter the hellish Bunker. Wattson's team was still on the leaderboards, shining in victory and with more kills than before. Caustic was right by her side, gas effects replaying across the screens, Elliott didn't have a doubt that they would be in said tunnels.

Honestly, with respect to Pathfinder and far too much more than it for Bloodhound, Elliott was not confident in fighting them until necessary. He could only hope that someone else took them out, that their team was cleared before the final fight. His own teammates seemed to agree, although they didn't need to share anything more than nods. With two defenses and a Scouting offender ready, they had outplayed everyone. 

Elliott drew back from the edge, dangling far too close when he pushed himself up. He reached for the LMG on his belt, holstering it as if the thing would come in use after his brain was blown to bits from a distance. He stood next to Bloodhound, who leaned on a table-like boulder, giddy as though they gave it a second thought. Pathfinder held his map out so that they could strategize, on the other side of Elliott, and he cursed inwardly that it was his better side, even when Bloodhound barely moved their mask towards him. 

At that moment in time, Elliott was obviously grinning stupidly at his teammates, but more importantly, the trio was outside any comfortable borders. The ring began minimizing in eight hours, the shortest path would take roughly three and cut through Bunker. Everyone was quiet when they thought, even him, surprisingly. Time ticked quickly, eyes fidgeted, grin faltered, Elliott kept an eye on Bloodhound's jogging foot. 

"Hey, we can still head around Market!" Pathfinder exclaimed, his face not expressing the brightness, his displayed emoticon didn't do much justice. Elliott laughed, the kind that was genuine, full of shiny pearls and gum beneath his beard, because the lack of expressions from his teammates were just really bizarre. If Pathfinder was human, would he be monotone? Was Bloodhound smirking beneath that weird mask?

"I just thought of that. Well, I mean… who's kidding, no I didn't. Good idea Path!"

Bloodhound nodded, readjusting the strap of their backpack on one shoulder.

"The travel may take some time, we should move soon." And then after Elliott turned to gather the rest of his scattered supplies, Bloodhound leaned an arm on Pathfinder and muttered foreign praise. Elliott felt his mood drop a few steps at the familiar reminder that he was not treated nor probably-perceived in difference to Pathfinder.

Altitude shifted with a steady descent towards the floor. First, with harsh pops within ear canals and then a rise in temperature. The Market was basically covered in orange heat from the ring, with a line of black sand and burnt roofs marking its borders by now. This was one of the reasons that neither Bloodhound nor Elliott had thought of it as a path. If the team made its way beneath a mountain, in the small tunnel to said Marketplace before the five hour mark, they could surely make it around before the ring closed in. The trouble was that there was only so much space between the high mountain and the walls of the ring, between which the team had to gamble their lives. It was a dangerous plan, yes sure, but there was no telling how many enemies were guarding the open desert on any other side. 

Bloodhound's boots kicked back a lot of sand. This was the dumb thing that Elliott focused on, if another team shot them up, Elliott would be distracted by the wonky bandages that kept those tattered shoes together and they wouldn't even know. When walking, differently to before, they spoke little. Pathfinder headed on above, ziplining atop shorter hills to make sure the coast was clear. Elliott would pass comments about surroundings, There go more of those giants, cool, yeah.' Or Whoa, it's hotter than yesterday'. Nothing that could land, but sometimes Bloodhound gave a civil hum or replied with their own observations. Elliott couldn't miss a beat, but his rhythm had never been the best. 

Five hours left. Elliott stopped right next to the Zipline that steadily led beneath the mountain, into a tunnel of loot, this was a tricky place. His hands fidgeted mindlessly with the belt, shaking at the precision necessary to tie himself onto the steel rod. The likes of meeting another team were low by now, especially when he imagined that a good few of them were bumping heads on their way towards the deadly Bunker. Regardless, if they lost track of time and the ring decided to close in on them, they would be stuck with a long way out. The ring was notorious for getting hotter the further it went and Elliott assumed that by the third ring he would be as burnt as a crisp after five minutes.

The Market was unsurprisingly intact, with open doors and feathering crows that picked at weeds sticking through the sand. Made of galvanized-steel panels, the building radiated heat. Like those expensive Tridents, Elliott imagined that if he so much as touched it, he would be burnt. Basically, the team had four feet of space between the mountain and ring. Pathfinder couldn't create a Zipline on the sand and it would be risky for him to fly around this small area. Sometimes they touched shoulders, Pathfinder lingering behind or Bloodhound taking a couple of steps forward.

Upon reaching the end, the sharp turn and edge of the rocks, preserved footprints covered the land. Elliott readjusted his gun, a reminder to himself of where to blindly aim his hand while hurrying.

Bloodhound crouched over the ground and he leaned over the side of their sturdy form, a grin eating at his cheeks in wonder. They gathered the gravelly sand, comparing it with something from inside a pocket, leaning hands in comparison. Elliott's intrigue could probably be heard, never fading regardless of the many times he had seen filmed footage of their tracking skills.

"This place has stayed untouched--" they moved their mysterious mask up towards him and then off to bigger fields that lead to the ring. "--that is, nearly. However, the enemies must be far away by now, if not dead."

Then they sifted the sand back into one of the pockets on their jacket, those hands looked precise and yet delicate. Elliott couldn't quite differ whether the feeling in his lungs shrank or grew as they stood back up beside him, face to face. He wanted to ask where they learnt those neat tricks, if they could teach him in that cliche way like in the movies. Would it be dumb? A magician never revealed their secrets, what would happen when they were enemies next year… he stayed quiet. 

Something that Elliott was starting to understand was a sign of continuation, or maybe of ending was their familiar graze against his elbow. Elliott kicked the sand beneath his feet pleasantly as he followed along, lost in the retracting strum of Pathfinders Zipline.

There was a desert towards the Bunker. The difference, something that could lead to a victory or lame death, was the thin wall that stood between that desert and where Elliott and his team were traveling. If the plan went right, they could end up on the opposite side and within the safety of the fourth ring. Somewhere in the centre, but hidden within the scattered buildings. Elliott couldn't hear or see anything, but from the way that Bloodhound seemed to lean against the rocky walls and look towards where the other side would be, there was somebody. They looked up and Elliott followed the lead.

"Mirage, cover your ears." 

Up in the metric sky, forming atop clouds like some obscure raindrops and now dropping like hail, were missiles. Many, and it could belong to either of two people, but a quick understanding of the shape would've made it obvious that somebody was dealing with the wrath of Bangalore. Luckily it was not headed towards them, but to the other side of the mountain instead. 

Shooting began to ring, the kind that signalled death and not just distant kickbacks. Elliott gulped and Pathfinder shared enthusiasm about his idea to take this side, of course, he phrased it as though Elliott had helped find this way.

They continued walking, soft and quiet treading in the sand as they reached the final end.

"Damn, yeah guys, this is it." 

There were two hours until the ring closed in and the trio had practically scored a final location. At the end of the long wall, the view of such a seemingly steep desert was right behind one last corner. The shooting had quieted down, enemies at nineteen but there were still seven teams left. Elliott leaned on a passing rock, his knees spread out as he relaxed. Just enough time to take a sip of water, but not enough to make his stomach stitch. Pathfinder injected some sort of tar into his hip and Bloodhound parted, probably to drink in privacy. As much as Elliott wanted to take a look, just one, to satisfy his wandering brain, he had the decency to refrain and chug water as quietly as possible when he had been sweating so much. There was that feeling of satisfaction, as the sips became more average, he listened to distant shooting.

A crack came from his earpiece and from the sky, as though a vintage speaker turning on before the announcer began speaking.

"The kill leader has been eliminated."

Elliott simmered, something more deep than the traveling water setting into his bones. His wristband ticked quietly when teams went down, synchronised with the announcement. 

Wraith would not leave her team alone and she didn't usually have the luck of a solo Win. Even when she was told to run away, she would stumble before disappearing. As the numbers decreased, he sighed. Wraith was probably dead, and so was Caustic, but he didn't care much for the man. Wraith, who had offered her mercy only two days ago, was probably in a state of sleep and would awake in pain before him. Right now, in the delusion of the Ring, she was dead, Elliott's dear friend and her fiance who had been so happy, they were both dead. At least Elliott wasn't the killer.

He felt stress and lackluster grief eat at his insides. When Bloodhound returned with their sleeves rolled up and their backpack on one shoulder, they watched him solemnly. Nobody spoke, only a quick word or two about continuing towards the ring. There wasn't much to do, Elliott just had to put it aside, keep up his happy face and competitive spirit, this way he could fight till the end.

Bangalore looked cool, but it made Elliott grimace. Her smile and signature lines covered the big screens as she flashed her title of the renewed Kill leader. If Bangalore was the one who killed Wattson and her team, just a wall from Elliott's own, he could only wonder: who the hell is in Bunker?

There were five teams left, but far noise was a sign that it would drop again soon. The ring's ray-like sound vibrated through the arena. Elliott was leaning on the edge of a building with the trusty LMG leaning across his thighs. Crumbles were piling up, he was busy eating a dusty cracker that tasted like chalk, watching out. Above walls, his team would see anyone passing before they realized. Elliott watched the bunker, Pathfinder was focusing on the hills of desert behind them and Bloodhound? Elliott was snug, they sat on the other side of the small rooftop, his back warm and solid against their own. Elliott was grinning childishly, careless now that the fake grief had passed, his feet swang in rhythm. 

Bloodhound was feeling talkative, taking aim sometimes but usually they just surveyed. They had a keen sense of humour at times, old-fashioned and sometimes he couldn't tell if they were being serious or not. Maybe if he could understand their intentions, he would begin to believe in himself. For now he was strumming at his own heart and laughing as quietly as possible, catching doubt in the forming stitch.

Pathfinder took aim, Elliott only caught it when he stopped for a breath, truly, he never kept quiet. With the sound of the ring, getting closer as the clock ticked, Elliott couldn't hear all the constant alerting. 

The nudge was heavy. Elliott pushed Bloodhounds back, legs grasping for the metal roof as they both rolled down the hill of sand and towards a bigger set of buildings.

"Thank me later. Just, the gun, over there!" He muttered in such a rush. The bright smile not matching his concern, they both rushed into the house and Pathfinder slammed the door shortly after. Bordering unscaved, Elliottt gripped his ears as the downfall began.

more rockets, Bloodhound crouched inward with hands securing the bottom of their mask.

Any shooting that came was overpowered by the eruptions, as the doors blew inwards. Glass blast inwards, around, it scraped at pathfinders paint and Bloodhound's neck. One piece engraved in Elliott's leg, how could they avoid it when the room was so small that he could hear his teammates' breaths. Elliott hunched on Pathfinder. 

"Goddamnit-"

His palms were shaking, he was never one to enjoy the presence of some a vivid wound, not when the adrenaline wasn't running yet.

Bloodhound pulled the piece of glass out quickly, leaving a wide slit that began to fill up with red. They nodded in his direction as Pathfinder stopped the bleeding. Ripping a syringe open, Elliott let the liquid run down to the wound and drip down the floor. It shut quicker than if he were to inject it through his wrist, but was wasteful. He carelessly wiped his clean hand of health down the slice in Bloodhound's neck, grinning at their lack of question.

Pathfinder left the unsafe enclosure first, he was unharmed. It was better to be outside than cooped in a tiny room and ready for slaughter, Elliott agreed.

"Mirage, stay safe." Bloodhound said in parting, it sounded hopeful and his lips lifted to show teeth at the embarrassment. 

"I don't need that, c'mon- just watch yourself out there, alright?" 

Then Elliott was alone. Was he supposed to make the decisions alone? They hadn't devised anything, This wasn't very tea--

The remaining door blew, the scattering remnants making high noises as they scraped the floor and stuck through walls. Elliott ran out, with his teammates nowhere to be seen and the shooting catching up to him. He could hear Bloodhound through the speaker, maybe it was also Pathfinders springing. Elliott gripped his Prowler.

Bangalore turned the corner, her smoke ready to confuse. She let out a laugh and shot the bomb, a cloud erupting. Who was she messing with? As the canister hit sand, clouds rising to cover everything, Elliott was gone.

"Bamboozle!" Mirage slid down and around, his decoys doing the same in a mirror-like way. 

"Bamboozle, ha, gotcha!" They repeated before crumbling over and over again. Elliott shot bursts, cracking Bangalore's defense, her shields, her grin. She replied with anger, full of fire and ready to explode. Elliott couldn't feel the shots going through him, it was a relief if anything.

He reloaded his gun, hands at a loss towards where the remaining heavy mags sat on his belt. Luckily, Bangalore was doing the same. With his shield cracked and wounds seeping thick blood, but somehow she was in a worse shape. She was getting closer, no time to shoot, not for neither. 

Elliott crouched down, ready to receive a kick, but he managed to slam the empty gun down her abdomen. She let out a gag as it warped her stomach. 

Bangalore cursed when she went down, laying on the floor in a pool of her own blood. It was disgusting and he sighed, getting to cover.

On the other side of the battlefield were Pathfinder and Bloodhound. Three teams were coming at them in full force and Elliott could hear everything through his device. Bloodhound was fighting Gibraltar, using their Peacekeeper to hit snugly beneath his shield. Gibraltar was also using a shotgun, they exchanged blows. Pathfinder was hanging with a nameless kid, and the poor chap fell easily. The robot was wiping through a whole team, he could hear the sound of metal against metal.

With one last syringe to begin working, Elliott's foot tapped impatiently. He needed to be out there, to help his team win. He couldn't stay cooped in this place and ready to die. 

Practically kicking the door open, he shot Bangalore through the head and she was done for. As her body crumbled to the floor, the announcer blaring loudly, he ran to the remaining enemies.

Another kid dead, shot by his LMG. Two killed by Pathfinder, their bodies slowly decaying. There were four teams left, so close. Bloodhound was on Gibraltar, who Pathfinder had killed back in Market and Elliott shot at a renewed Octane.

This was deja vu, as he became the butt of all jokes. Octane shared not a care in the world, so adamant that he would win, but Elliott showed just as much courage if not more. He would avenge Renee, would impress Bloodhound, would go and buy everyone a drink.

Octane shot fast but blankly and Elliott couldn't reload his Prowler, slow but heavy shots from his R301 ringing everywhere. Hair blowing and decoys running. Down his knees, into his newly made shield, he could feel his body beginning to wear itself, the adrenaline was wearing thin. 

Just three more teams, he thought.

A decoy party was all he needed to break through, two more seconds. Elliott pressed the oversized button on his wrist. Suddenly a circle of decoys enveloped his disappearing body, Elliott reloaded his Prowler and aimed for Octane.

Another one down. 

"Son of a bitch, damn Amigo." He grinned on the floor, muttering something in Spanish. Elliott also smirked, with his gun in his hand and ready to shoot. 

Lifeline appeared from a corner, or more accurately, on top of a fence. She began shooting through his spine. Elliott groaned, to the side was a door. Just one door, this was his opening, one more chance.

Elliott trapped himself, dropping to the floor. One syringe left, his hands were shaking so much. Four shield cells, Elliott used his last battery. The blue forcefield shone through the glass, octane rising and lifeline ready to smash the door. Pathfinder was going low, but then he was gone. Elliott was caught up in the fight and didn't even hear his teammates. 

Pathfinder was dead and Elliott didn't even notice, he thought that he would definitely avenge the Robot. Gibraltar was thankfully also dead, Bloodhound recovering deep in a room just like Elliott. Another team entered the picture, everything was so slow. 

Bloodhound was shot from behind, they gave Elliott a last word of encouragement, their body kneeled audibly before being executed by another team. 

Elliott was now truly alone. 

He gripped his gun as Lifeline kicked the door off of its hinges, Elliott blazed out, his decoy on one side and him on the other. 

"Wrong one, hah." If not for the confusion, he would be dead.

Lifeline was down, one more before he could hopefully hide awhile.

Octane came in full blast, no decoy hiding Elliott, not this time. it seems that lifeline possessed a Golden backpack. His wrinkles showing beneath goggles, a wide shark smile on his mask and quick shooting from his Submachine. 

There was no chance for Elliott to win. Truthfully, he should've ran through the building and tried to sneak up on them both. 

He saw Octane's ugly mug, making rounds around his body.

Elliott died quickly, it was relieving if anything.


	8. Plays of subtlety

The beeping of machines was loud, but such big crowds of fans waiting on the first floor of the hospital couldn't be blocked out so easily. It was absurd, nighttime at the edge of Solace City, yet somehow people of all ages had made their way to see the victorious teams of Apex Legends. 

On the third floor, only a few fighters were still immobile. Most had rushed out after regaining consciousness, it was better to stay in a flourished home than in a paparazzi trap. Flowers lined every corner, in respectable vases or bundles, being cared for responsibly and the lights were soft and brown instead of a jarring blue.

in a small room at the far edge of the large floor, with the blinds of every window shut to keep the bright camera shuttering out, Elliott had been for the past week. 

Taped to infusions and in barely anything other than blankets, his beard was overgrown and the natural brown found a way to peek through old highlights from shows. His lips were chapped and legs painfully unused.

Precisely four days had passed since he died in the Arena, if he had been stuck in a dream state for all that wasted time, it must've been so terrible that his body decided to erase any memory of it.

A loud gasp for air was all that signalled the end of torment, but nobody was there to hear him fix the problems into barely audible comic relief. They couldn't see the frown reach his face at that tingling feeling, as the movement returned to his limbs in static-like texture.

Elliott's eyes were red, the veins bumping about all visible surfaces, they traveled down his cheek and neck. He thought that the sight was probably god-awful, would his hair ever come back from another fall? Did the nurses shower him while he was sleeping? Of course not, Elliott yawned in something that couldn't be phrased as tiredness but didn't feel like the outcome of oversleeping. 

With sweat and drool sticking to his body and the sheets beneath, Elliott watched the corner of the room. In the still dazed state of a previously dead man, he was thinking about a good amount of worthless things: last season he gained tons of weight, would it happen again? Was he balding? it really felt like his hairline was further back. Since he probably hadn't brushed his teeth in a while, would he need to start bleaching them again?

The most absurd, probably caused by all of those painkillers and his Hanahaki; Elliott was biting his lip, wondering about that feeling in his chest. Was Bloodhound doing alright?

In itself, the question was cliche and also something that he could laugh about before he fell asleep again. Kinda like in a teenage romance, he could run and confess to Bloodhound while still half awake. Elliott was an adult and was compensating with looks for the braveness that he lacked. 

Honesty, he probably wouldn't be having any more soundly nights, afraid of being stuck in whatever had been going on for the past week again. This meant that he got more time to wonder what could have happened if he jumped and ripped the needles from in his veins, probably getting lost in the hospital corridors instead of kissing an unsuspecting teammate. 

Elliott doubted that Bloodhound was fine, but this wasn't the first death for any of his friends. Bloodhound could probably feel the phantom pain of bullets in their back, but Renee would also see the death of her beloved every time she blinked. Natalie would find it harder to concentrate for a good month, tossing at night and agitated all day because of the tiredness.

Ajay was probably worried sick, leaning over a sleeping Octavio, or maybe she was asleep and Octane was jumping around the corners of her room restlessly.

Would Anita still be able to shout with her might about how great she felt, or would she be pent up about unearthed memories of her brothers?

He snickered at himself, hands cold and numb as they wrapped across his stiff face and straightened the hair of his beard into a point; these thoughts really weren't helping him feel better.

Elliott leaned back into the covers, readjusting so that his shoulders felt comfortable against the brick-like mattress. His eyelashes fluttered against the scar on his cheek, a smile as solemn as it got on his face. Elliott fell back asleep, his mouth open and his hands reaching past the mattress edge. 

Then upon re-awakening, he felt exactly the same as the first time. Nearly although back in the mornings of school, with his mother banging the kitchen pans together and the youngest of his brothers groaning that it was far too early. With the rattling of the weak stereo and the tamed raptors making morning roars from the farm. He didn't want to move, just to flip sides and cover himself from the sun that somehow got through all edges of the hospital blinds. He wanted to give in to the tiredness that was overcoming everything, to shut those eyes just for a few more seconds and nod back towards solace.

Elliott blinked, he could definitely do this, as long as he sat up quickly. 

His throat was dry because he hadn't drunk anything in a week and upon leaning his back straight, his hair edged awkwardly from being ironed against the pillow. He was right, it really wouldn't go back to how it was a couple of weeks ago.

On the sides of the room, many cards and flowers leaned on the white table and chairs. Some were adorned with flowers and pink syringes, others had terrible puns painted across them. These were gifts from all of those that had awoken prematurely, any fan cards and gifts were stored in a giant container.

"Hah, flowers--" He laughed at his own joke, not memorable enough to mention, but he was growing an orchard inside his upset stomach and lungs. It was just funny for some reason that people were bringing more for his collection. Elliott leaned his feet on the wooden floor and heard the deep pops from unused sockets, he stood and wobbled. 

Nurses and doctors didn't have time anymore, but most of them had been replaced by robots anyway. Elliott couldn't flirt with robots, he also had yet to find one that was remotely attractive. Nobody checked the unnecessarily loud commotion from the corner room, so he was stuck packing everything memorable into his favourite duffel bag alone. By the time all of the gifts were stuffed down, it looked on the verge of eruption, like a relative at Thanksgiving. 

With all the supplies packed, including a small envelope of digital money for participation, he just had to gather himself and ready for a show.

Elliott slid into a pair of trousers and switched the hospital robe for a particularly loose shirt, it was morning and he would get dressed after a shower. For now, he ran his head under the bedside sink and sighed at all of the shedding strands that stuck to the marble. Well, it flattened the mess out, and after a few minutes of drying, his hair bounced back in somewhat familiar fashion.

Elliott gathered his shoes, just the old ones that felt the best against sore feet. He grabbed a special bucket that he had dubbed The Trophy -- And Trophy, the sweetheart, was for everything Elliott was expected to vomit this next week while recovering from his fight. 

Elliott stumbled down the staircase, duffel in hands. His body was built but not _actually_ used, this was coming into play now that his legs couldn't support the mass of luggage, What a pity. Luckily, downstairs his driver waited, metal arms pulling the luggage from his grasp as though it were weightless. Elliott let out a scoff, would Bloodhound enjoy it if he carried them around with no reason other than a personal desire?

When he opened the doors to the hospital, stepping out to the carpet roads and towards his Trident, fans screamed beyond the transparent borders. Of all shapes and sizes, with shirts that flaunted his pretty face among others, Elliott didn't recognize the beaming thankfulness, he thought that it was a feeling of wonder.

He laughed, shouting praise towards everyone and himself, they always replied with the second part. It was once overwhelming, with so many microphones trying to overcome the fence, but he could hear his heart beating heavily to the rhythm of the chants.

Elliott stayed true to tradition and threw all but one of the flower bundles towards the crowd, he hoped that the singular he kept, full of yellows, was namelessly sent by Bloodhound.

As all of their eyes chased the flying knots, women and children cheered for whoever caught the goods. He grinned at the view, all of those faces being accentuated under the morning light. Everyone was so happy, and he wondered if anyone was still trying to sleep up there, but there was nobody to approach. He thought, was Bloodhound still laying in one of those stiff beds? Did they always wear that awfully attractive mask while recovering?

It had only been a dozen hours since the edited match show was over, with winners on every billboard for about a mile. Elliott was waiting for the next time he could see his own glorious mug on a banner around the streets. There was an added anticipation for the idle Bloodhound that would stand beside him, as though he didn't already have memorabilia from them.

When Elliott reached the vehicle, he blew kisses and waved at the disappearing fans. His driver was a MRVN, it's head bopped to a song on the radio.

With the sun blocked out by tinted windows and the Trident driving fast, he rested.

The first time Elliott vomited was right after he got home. The ride must've shook his insides, and those failed attempts at reading the longer words in the cards really didn't help. All he could even gather was a weak _'Good job, Brudda, all apologies._ he had yet to find one from Bloodhound, if they cared enough to send something. Elliott would have to catch up with everyone, he had never been the best at writing.

He climbed through the fire exit, up the staircase instead of opening the barricades of Paradise Lounge, but With the bathroom past his locked door, he tried to stop that feeling as long as possible. He tried to find the right keycard and press that pin through, but only dropped his baggage with a loud thud in the process.

One splash and the Bamboozle Logo on the inside of Trophy was covered. He hadn't eaten yet, not properly, so the upturn was basically blood and a good amount of clear liquid. Another protocol was the tiny pieces of metal littering it like confetti. Elliott tried hard to take deep breaths through his mouth, the taste of copper overwhelming his senses.

He finally entered the house after regaining his composure, activating the electricity with a flick to each of the six switches on his wall, then he had a shower. 

There wasn't any immediate desire, he would rather have stayed comfortable in his pajamas or even returned to the cozy furnace of a bed, but as soon as the warm water ran down his frame it soothed the worry.

Elliott rubbed the second layer of Shampoo through his thick curls, down his tanned shoulders. The water felt like a needed massage for his muscles, the bed ache of a week but to him, those arms had held heavy weapons and his body had been worn out with punches.

It was over for now, he had to remind himself. He was alive and real, and Ajay was going to laugh with him like usual when they met again.

Oh seriously, they were meeting again-- Elliott thought about the day. Tomorrow he would be facing everybody while hosting his own party. Damn, was he ready? Not at all, hah. He needed to buy more alcohol for when the Lounge reopened, because he had forgotten to order it before leaving. Maybe leaving the house could do him some good.

When Elliott was finished, with soft skin, hair that dangled down his face and neck, the whole bathroom was steamy and his body a mere splodge of colour in the mirror, but it was somewhat of a relief to not have those tired and judging eyes. His legs thudded against the wet floor, a yellow towel gathering water down his scalp and back. Elliott sighed in relief, the scar on his chest was gone.

The next time that Elliott vomited, it swirled down the public toilet and made a droop' sound as it reached the water. He had gone to the store closest to his home, walking distance. He was still wearing tracksuits, but the shirt was thinner and gripped in a way that did justice to his figure. There was a bit more colour in his face, beneath a pair of Shades, he grinned comfortably.

The glass doors shifted open, and he waved at the Cashier woman. The girl was young, an avid fan of sorts, but who wasn't in _Elliott's_ eyes? She smiled back, busy with another customer, but it seemed sincere at the least. Elliott was happy to hear the usual praise from other workers, they were nice enough and didn't stick to him like paparazzi.

Pretzels, Elliott picked the ones that looked the best, he had never learnt about handling money and it seemed to be the outcome of many tragedies nowadays. His tall frame towered over the peanut section, humming and reading simple descriptions. Everything had felt fine, he looked at least a fraction more alive, with buzzing lights overhead and children running around the corners. Of course, just as Elliott turned towards a familiar Alcohol counter, a hand on his chin, he wondered if Bloodhound drank anything. He really had nobody else to blame… 

They were probably a beer person, he could imagine them solemnly gripping a giant jug, but what type? He wasn't keen on them himself, preferring a sweet cocktail. Honestly, Elliott didn't know why he was trying, Bloodhound would probably be sick or wouldn't come and they never took their mask off anyway. Just with that thought, Elliott felt the wicked hole in his stomach grow to the point of echo. Nobody saw him search for the bathroom, leaving his basket of items on a nearby counter.

Puking was a good thing-- Well, obviously not, it was painful and ruined those perfect teeth. He hadn't been so surprised to see fresh blobs of flower petals swim to the surface. It was Good particularly because he knew that it would come sooner or later, and the relief outweighed the grief. He was also reminded to buy more of those giant pills.

The readymade meals were nice and the Isle tempted him far too much. On the way, Elliott found more useless items, a new toothbrush and some sweets amongst the collectibles, he was like some sort of child.

Eventually, he arrived back at the cashier. They exchanged small talk as he placed his sparse items on the Till.

This girl and him had a short Fling, but it was practically ancient, one of the few dates Elliott had been on that didn't end with an extra pair of shoes on his doorstep. It was blatant that the two weren't a match, but he usually didn't care as long as he got through the night.

Two weeks later, they were still chatting on the phone. It felt good although they weren't close and didn't share much of a personal status, maybe this lack of commitment was what made it better.

She had found a guy who seemed nice enough, another person for Elliott to suffer around as some sort of third wheel, living alone and practically retired with that Hanahaki thing going on.

He laughed, and when her eyes reached the slight shine, she joined in on it. The interaction made him feel better and on the way home, with hands full of heavy bags, Elliott lingered on the joy.

Back up the stairs, only street lights kept a facade of daytime present. His fingers had indented lines from carrying the individuals, his feet hurt and his eyes were strained. In comparison to how long he had walked on the battlefield, through steep hills of desert and in the quickly shifting weather, this travel wasn't long at all. He kicked his door shut and sighed when the bags hit his kitchen counter. There was enough time tomorrow to sort everything out, as long as he put the iron capsules of milk and beer in the fridge. They clinked together, even when there was barely anything previously inside.

Elliott scrolled through his phone when he ate the premade meal, it looked and had the same texture as a clump of grey, but tasted like whatever he wanted it to be. The habit of watching the bright screen was one that could be considered unhealthy, but it made him feel less lonely. When an increasing rate of stories about him came up, he considered adding better lines in his next performance.

The meal was soon over.

Elliott smirked, looking up at the light upon his kitchen and then outside towards nighttime. Tomorrow he would pull everything out and have a blast with all of his friends, he could be happy and forget about those pesky worries. He could pour drinks and flirt with rich women, could watch his Decoys try to impress people in suits and makeup and listen to Renee chatter quietly.

Right now, Elliott planned on sending an individual message out for all of the Legends in his Guild. Technology was a massive help, his writing borderline unreadable and the phone automatically corrected the mistakes made by his quick hands. He would invite everyone, even Nox, _god,_ even Octavio. Maybe he could call Bloodhound, frame it as though he had called to ask about the party, but for the past two years he sent automated messages. He was feeling confident, but something told him not to be over-ambitious, that cursed voice in his brain holding him back.

So with his feet up on the glass tea table and his back as comfortable as possible on that stale couch, Elliott flickered through his contacts. He started off from the bottom, sending out those same templates over and over with an exception. When he wrote, he read it out quietly, testing the roll of his tongue. He could send a few, finish the batch and then get on to Bloodhound. They were all he thought about, he wondered what they would wear or if they would even come. Did they think about these social matters as unnecessary? They sometimes sounded like that while muttering their own lines on the battlefield. Completely untouched by anyone and what others thought, but it was in the most humble way.

His fingers flicked each message past almost automatically, brain occupied by further worries. Nearly there and finished, but Elliott was watching the idle screen of his holographic Television.

His hands jolted at the sudden vibration, and when his eyes went to check whatever might've happened on his phone, he smiled goofily at it. Usually, his phone was quiet, there were only calls and inquiries from bigger companies on a whitelist. Maybe his mother, or someone invited him to get another drink. Instead, on the bright screen, Elliott watched Bloodhound's contact information flash repetitively.

This was a miracle, it wasn't Christmas but these were still happening. With the quick question of whether he should be answering or throwing his phone at the television in panic, Hanahaki wasn't a present matter.

"Bloodhound?" Elliott asked, his smile an audible one. The line cracked again, further proving that they lived somewhere far from a reliable tower of connection. 

" _heill ok sæll_ and good afternoon, Elliott."

"Yeah, that's me and uh… yeah, hi," oh the glee. That giant grin eating up his insides in pleasant aloof, but anything that Elliott tried to say came out jumbled, how could he talk if thinking was limited to one name only? Bloodhound hummed against their microphone, the breath audible.

"Did you _mean_ to call me? I _mean_ , it's a pleasure, but--"

"I did. I believed it was appropriate after our end, don't you think?" It would be understandable, but this wasn't their first loss together and Bloodhound wasn't one to call often. Questions of importance didn't come up in his mind.

"Oh yeah, defi-nitely. I did great, and so did you, _obviously,_ but I guess it wasn't enough."

"Are you alright?" That accent was nice, he thought to himself, eyes watching his hands restlessly.

"Me? Yeah. Sure, fine."

"That's good."

"Yep," how was Elliott supposed to create a romance if he couldn't even create conversation. 

"Are you doing anything tomorrow?" He asked, nearly as though opposing a date.

" _No_ , nothing in particular."

Elliott laughed into his phone, embarrassed. "Do you wanna come over? I mean, for the party-"

They shifted again, he bit his lip in anticipation.

"I will see if it is possible, I am still feeling below the weather." 

"Ah, is it a harsh recovery?" 

"Yes, but something that I am familiar with, You may understand."

"Oh yeah, dif… definitely. My feet hurt from all that walking and I swear I can still feel that bullet in my chest, hah-" Bloodhound gave their own little hums and Elliott's stomach grew from that awfully pleasant feeling of butterflies. They both spoke longer, Elliott's jokes landed well and he swore that Bloodhound sounded like they were impressed with his random stories. Everything was stacking up to create an awesome streak, when Bloodhound asked quiet yet meaningless questions and Elliott gave enthusiastic answers on command. 

Elliott's laugh bubbled into somber chuckles and then one last scoff, eyes watching reruns from old games and his fingers playing with the loose hem of his shirt arm. 

"I must get going, I hope you understand that recovery requires a healthy amount of rest," they said but it wasn't of ill intent.

"Oh, yeah, you're right. Even _Mirage_ needs his eight hours of beauty sleep," teeth out at his own joke, he didn't even feel embarrassed, didn't feel threatened, didn't feel any pressure or pain in his chest.

" _Góða nótt,_ Elliott. may you be blessed with comfort." And he lingered on how his name sounded from their lips, somewhat more natural than in the Games but lowered down in quality by the microphone.

"Good night, Bloodhound."

Elliott smiled his way into bed, stripping to the bare minimum and wrapping himself cozily. Every light in his home was shut, the roads outside quiet and dark, but an organic yellow reached in from the bright planets circling Solace. He hugged his own pillow, feeling nothing other than happiness for the first time in a good while. Legs readjusting lazily and doubt not managing to creep through some sort of barrier.

The wrinkles around his eyes smoothed out, but the smile never completely left, not even when he was reaching that inevitable sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It's been two weeks since the last chapter, apologies to everyone. This will be updating slower since I am now writing the chapters on command.  
> I think I'll be happy with whatever comes out, even if it isn't top notch and is a wee bit out of character. It is very hard to write Elliott, since in cannon he is daft and I don't know to which degree. I also don't know how Bloodhound truly acts, I I fail to believe that they are so otherworldly outside of the arena.


	9. Cowboy counting

The bed in the second floor of the maisonette made loud creaks, it radiated through wooden panels and metal floorboards, making dust fly across the ground of Paradise Lounge. Every movement above could be felt, in the silence, it hollered through pipes. The bed was old, perhaps about nine years and with a droopy middle, but there were still no plans to replace it.

Sure, the elite mattresses in the hotel suites of every funded tour were better, even his flip-out couch could sustain more weight than the frame. Elliott wouldn't change it for the world, or maybe he would, but there wasn't exactly enough money in his bank to waste on a new bed.

The Alarm beside him wasn't stopping any time soon, loud shouts reaching every nook and cranny of the room, even beneath the thick blanket. On the other side, there was a window that he foolishly forgot to close, so behind the morning sun, those dreaded banners of the Winning team reigned terror.

Nearly stuck in the middle, if he couldn't just break the Alarm clock and cease his own recordings. He shuffled, left and right and with his head beneath the pillow, blocking out the sun, noise and morning chill, but it somehow found a way through. 

Elliott leaned on the wooden poster but his head banged against the wall, he flinched around the painful formation of a bump.  _ This is it!  _ he thought,  _ this is frickin' it! _

When he stood up, his hair bounced around in an untamed mess. Elliott's feet smacked against the floor and he didn't even spare a look at the Lifeline headline outside before slamming the blind shut. He traced the steps back in just as much might, but it was not anger, perhaps lazy exasperation or just discomfort. Elliott emptied any batteries in his clock, staring at that terribly animated Mirage Hologram that slowed down and then disappeared completely.

As he laid back beneath the covers, thankful that they were still warm, he let out a sigh. He shut those eyes, smoothed those lips to a line, itched his wrist. From one side to the other, he tousled some more.

It was terrible, life was terrible and everything sucked, Elliott had jinxed himself into an unbreakable lucidity.

After waking up from a two week sleep, the first night of a renewed consciousness was not without difficulty. Again, this was not from oversleep. Even while he was out cold, legs snug beneath hospital blankets, that pesky body was still at work. Those calories that he had lost on the battlefield; trotting across deserts in the painful burn of the sun, were long gone and his body still wore the swollen marks from any small wound; the bigger ones would hopefully disappear within a year. 

Any technology that came with Rich companies like the Syndicate made it a double-edged bargain. Unknowingly, Elliott had offered his whole being up to a name, from his mental health to his physical body. Every time he took those pills while in the dropship, falling into fiction, he was risking his life. With every shot of health that he took in the battlefield, the speed of his unconscious pulse sped up towards a state comparable to shock. It was fatal to die out there, as hilarious as the idea sounded.

Regardless, even if someone were entertaining the idea that he woke up in a frenzied state, pupils sharp and replenished, by the time his day was over it would have long since disappeared. Even just an hour of Jetlag and vomiting was enough to knock any average person out. So then, with the reasons and goal of rest clear, why was it that when he arrived in the comfort of his familiar bed last night, big enough for two with the bare minimum to spare and a childish blanket full of Bamboozle-Print on top, his body felt alive and full of energy?

Why was it that instead of taking the last orange pill in his kitchen, Elliott was lying helplessly and thinking about Bloodhound? because although it started off fun and comforting; wow, they called him and gosh they said that they would try and make it to his party, at the end everything became overwhelming. The idea of them listening to his daft replies and terrible jokes made him anxious, embarrassment blooming. They had once shown distaste towards him, so who was he to know that anything had changed? He really doubted that they saw him as anything except an annoying Loudmouth, Was there any hope? 

This was what had haunted Elliott's night, but when he was scrunched up, his stomach didn't hurt as much, it came back like a punch to the face and he laughed instead of frowning. Rolling to get comfortable but still, he couldn't rid himself of the thoughts, only hoping that they bored him towards tiredness. 

Fine. So Elliott wouldn't get back to sleep now, even though he well needed some more and couldn't be bothered to face the chill above the blankets. Depending on the way he looked at it, this wasn't such a bad thing, it just meant more time before the party. 

He was fine,  _ this is fine.  _ It did not help. As soon as Elliott walked towards his bedroom door, turning the corner towards his bathroom, he knew exactly what was coming. At least he had arrived at his toilet in time, the running struggle to fit a root out from his throat erupted into some sort of bloody bomb and sprinkled the seat, ugh it would probably make a stain in the shiny tile. He continued, the blood and painful gagging occupying every inch of that sore body. When the flowers pricked his throat on their way up, Elliott knew that he was destined to suffer through the everlasting sting at his every breath. So he laid on his cold bathroom tiles and stared at moths buzzing towards artificial light, he was a nice guy, he didn't deserve this.

Elliott decided that it was best for him to shower afterwards, perhaps an hour before the party, who knew how many times he would be sick. However he still stood in front of the mirror and trimmed the sides of his beard, smiling as he did so and moving his head to a comfortable angle, it had never been a strong suit. Then he brushed his teeth, they were the same offset white as they had been since primary school, when it was decided that he deserved the brace his brothers never got. In his own mind, they still seemed rustier than before.

Elliott had a distaste towards Roses. They stuck to the back of his throat and tasted terrible, a surprise to him since they were considered edible. Luckily, any residual that his toothpaste hadn't cleared out was cleaned by a hearty breakfast.

Okay. So bread with butter, because his toaster -the one that burnt in the shape of his face- was broken, didn't really feel like a particularly  _ Hearty _ meal. It kinda reminded him of home as a kid, where he would sometimes get eggs and bacon, and he still hadn't called that poor mother of his! Just crunching food and watching morning news, his phone ever so close… 

Elliott jumped up from the seat when he was finished, rubbing his toned chest with a hum, before he returned the plate to its rightful place. He was finally out of that half-asleep state, and the growling from his painful stomach no longer accompanied the burn of his lungs. He wore a white vest to match some yellow Boxer shorts, aware that he didn't have much longer to enjoy the comfort before getting dressed. The sun shining through his kitchen window was not a burden, rather an encouragement. It yelled at Elliott that today he would be active and then a great host, but as soon as that idea ventured forth, he let his head of untamed curls drop towards an exaggerated groan, still smiling. He was not ready for this.

The staircase whined in antique agony when Elliott treaded down it. He walked fairly quick for a sick man, nearly skipping down two at a time, his hands gripping the bar and gathering soot. Elliott was excited, but he didn't really know why. He wanted to talk with somebody until there was no breath in his lungs, it wasn't unusual and definitely wasn't unwelcome, but a while had passed since he last felt like this. Upon reaching the bottom, he stopped with a grin, then shuffled through a chunky chain of his keycards and opened the fences.

Elliott's hair was sorted out now, with the cheapest grade of gel making his curls solid and immobilized, they were still red from his recent battle. A new jacket, stylized of oranges and provided free of charge from the Syndicate, hugged his waist attractively, so that when he passed mirrors and reflective windows, he took a moment more than usual to readjust his clothes and smile. 

When sorting out the lounge, it mainly consisted of fixing all the chairs around sparse tables and placing holographic devices around the main Bar counter. His hips and long legs swayed to the songs on the old radio, but although fluid, the movements were out of rhythm. Not many of the songs could be recognised, because honestly, nobody really had time for music anymore. 

Snacks, including those expensive peanuts and some of the not-stale Pretzels from his storage locker, made their ways around. They shuffled into unhealthy salads of brown and littered surfaces beside the metal cup coasters with funky patterns on them. Elliott popped them through his lips at any given moment, not differing the textures and tastes, but the piles never shrank and his body barely grew.

Soon enough, with a giant flip of the highest switch in his electricity closet, the room came to life. It just wasn't the same without so many Mirages', who appeared above every holographic plate. It was like a party, which… well, it made sense. The colours shifted brighter and banners with neon praise shone around. His decoys all looked different, wearing some of his old outfits or styling suits, they danced around and spoke to the air.

Now, there was only a minimal chore left. Elliott needed to sort out drinks, which was the most important part, and he could grab that cowboy drink from the showcase to put on display. He held roughly three dozens of beers as though they were nothing more than a book, but those biceps flexed visibly and he would probably get distracted if he saw them. The brew went to fridges, fixed in slots with their respective duplicates, Elliott sighed when he had to push the last few in.

Now he looked up at the case of alcohol ahead, it was giant and lit up like a centerpiece. This was his final battle, he laughed at that joke.

Elliott was definitely tall, but not enough to reach the highest edge, and those new gravity-defying Ladders cost far too much money. A little parkour never hurt anyone, unless it was on Kings Canyon, then he probably would have died if not for those jets. His knees leaned on the black marble of the countertop and with an audible groan, his arms reached upwards. The pair of expensive shoes on his feet grasped for security and warned him at harsh movements, otherwise, he was all alone.

The keychain of the bottle rattled when his fingers scraped its glass surface, and his keys jangled on the wall, every noise was threatening and he couldn't be sure it was a bluff. He reached up as far as possible, mouth open and concentrated on the long of his arm, Elliott finally got enough of a grip and pulled it from the shelf, but his fingers quickly slipped up its neck.

The beating of his heart entered a panicked rate as he watched it drop, nearly in slow motion.

Beers were a specialty, they used to be homegrown by every ounce of his family. When Elliott was young, his father would sometimes come home after long months of his work, and then when his family ate their homely stew, the tired man would let his sons take a quick chug from the drafted beer in the cupboard. Even if they weren't particularly sweet, his brothers often got through a cup at the least, while Elliott made a sour face at the taste of a sip. He only found it to be a delight after reaching those risky teenage years, but luckily he stopped before anything serious happened to the frail body that he once possessed.

Now, there weren't many family members in a better state than his own mother. The drinks were gone, and Elliott was far too inexperienced to begin a new career, especially when it was practically hopeless. Any beer that passed his lips seemed to taste the same, and he brought whatever stock had the biggest quantity per package. It was easy to come by, and somehow still held up as a universal beverage.

On the other hand, or unfortunately,  _ not,  _ in this case, were the fine bottles on display. Those ones  _ were _ expensive, some even one of a kind by now, exclusive. They pulled people in, alongside a considerable amount of Cash.

As the bottle twisted around in anticipation towards the ground, quicker with each spin, Elliott reached out for it. He felt every ounce of his body move towards it instinctively. 

The Cowboy bottle fell into a trampoline decoy-Mirage's hand and he grabbed it before the presence quickly evaporated from just that slight force. He was never more thankful for the lofty technology, that one instruction to catch anything falling, like a wine glass or stray ice cube. Elliott laughed and wiped hair from his face, the momentary relief was unbelievable. The expensive bottle was fine, leaning in security towards the shiny partition, but Elliott no longer had his own security. His whole body shook and that knee gave way to the bar corner, his whole body scrambling to grab ahold of something.

He toppled down with a grumble, everything becoming a mush and when his back hit the floor he let out a loud groan, biting his lip at the sudden pain in his coccyx.

He laid back, watching the disco lights flicker between colors. 

A couple shuffled through the polished doors of Paradise Lounge, and then a larger group followed behind them. Their shadows jumped past counters, circling the bar. Loudness had arrived with them, through an incoherent gibberish, it rounded the room corners. Elliott was there, but wasn't exactly visible from the floor. He was still laying, but quite some time had passed. It was not that he couldn't stand back up and he definitely had some reasons to, if you were to ask him, he probably wouldn't have a true answer as to why he hadn't resurfaced.

"Mirage?"

"Oh," Elliott turned his head with a grin and rubbed at the beard of his cheek. "Wattson?"

Natalie laughed quietly, probably at the bizarreness, but she held a hand to hide that sweet smile. "Elliott, what are you doing on the floor?" She leaned down over bare ankles and tucked a bang behind her ear.

"I mean, it was getting hot… well actually, I fell," Natalie could comfort anyone she spoke to, so that even Elliott wasn't stuttering over an embarrassing explanation.

" _ Mon dieu,  _ do you need help? Are you hurt?" 

"What-- uh, no! Not hurt, me? Nope."

Natalie Paquette held a gloved hand out and Elliott grabbed it with all his might, they both groaned upwards. 

_ Ow! Damn… _

A sharp pain shot up his thigh, it rose through his hip and the core seemed to take place throughout a forming bruise. Natalie tucked her small but sturdy body beneath Elliott and acted as a well needed anchor, he leaned on the countertop and simmered in self-pity. How was he supposed to entertain anyone when he couldn't dance, those decoys could only do so much. Could he even bartend? There were only two other kids on his shift, neither even coordinated. 

Elliott felt his body move, being forced to sit by four strong arms. He grinned, "whoa there, take it easy!"

Renee smirked into his ear, one of those cynical yet carefully placed ones as though she was biting back a sarcastic comment. Natalie was scuffling through his fridge and Ajay was massaging his leg through the pant fabric. Elliott wasn't used to being treated like some sort of king, not by anyone except his management teams and designers. It felt good to be cared for like this, but also very embarrassing, what was he supposed to do? How could he help? He was very verbal towards the pain and insisted that he didn't need help. Octavio leaned on the bar counter next to presents from competitors, his hair brushed back in an untamed mess, he was sure to bring Elliott back down to earth.

"Ever thought of losing a leg, hah? Che can get you set up pronto. ¡sin pierna, sin dolor!" And then he let out an evil laugh, Ajay shouting something equally as petty back at him.

At least it felt like a party now, full of annoying people who hadn't even ordered the expensive beverages on his menu yet.

"So then, if you're all here, where's Bloodhound?--" he averted the question, thinking he could turn it general as to not alert anyone, "--or Nox,  _ or Anita." _

"Doctor Caustic is already seated, he gave me his order!" Natalie exclaimed with shiny eyes.

"Williams's talkin with Mak', should be here any minute now. As-fa Bloodhound, they must be runnin' late!" Ajay pushed an ice pack into Elliott's hand, he shivered, she smacked his leg before standing to brush herself off. "Ya better watch yourself next time, don't be an idiot--" she flickered a pointing finger towards the distracted Octavio, "--one's more than enough."

Elliott grinned when the two had another face off, the way she obliterated his body with bullets in their last match was already completely forgotten.

Bloodhound hadn't arrived yet. It had been a good hour since the first crowd entered, Elliott made it his goal to greet anybody he could place. There was only so much to talk about with Renee, how he had placed better than her in the match and she totally made a bet with him before it started. Natalie was also a natural charm, she laughed at his jokes which egged him into better conversation. He could never exhaust the unimportant topics, not afraid to talk about new television and funny rumours from fans. He had served four paparazzi photographers and spoken to two interviewers with giant microphones, while selling his expensive alcohol. It was definitely helpful that he had a story to tell when he poured the shot glasses, enthusiastically talking about how he sacrificed a limb to get it down.

His party was a splash of loud noise and lights, and although he said it every time, this was the best that he had served. An attractive complexion grinning at everyone, acting cooly as though, in the back of his mind, he wasn't thinking about Bloodhound again. He imagined, they could be running late, or maybe they were chilling at home and had forgotten about it, or maybe… maybe they just didn't see a reason to bother, but that would be absurd, even the Mad Scientist had made an effort before gradually giving up and exiting through the entrance. Elliott enjoyed thinking, although it happened at a lesser rate than average. He enjoyed talking to himself and plotting unimportant things, like jokes for his next match that he would surely forget by the next day. However, this was not fun. None of it, not the terrible thoughts about Bloodhound or his own demise, not leaning on the counter with his leg up like a flamingo and thinking about how he could die again next week.

His eyes traveled the walls with blown cheeks full of liquor, he looked around. That throat was beginning to close, but Elliott wouldn't leave his place to go and cleanse the plant traveling upwards. What if Bloodhound arrived, or another one of those women in the tight suits. A voice piqued only a short angle away, there they were.

Elliott wanted to mutter the rehearsed line that each holographic assistant was coded with. He wanted to hide and regain the composure that seemed to be depleting like oxygen in a sinking bottle, then come out and greet them like the proud man that he was supposed to be. His eyes and head turned again before everything below followed, tumbling through the movements to avoid putting pressure on his sore leg. Bloodhound wore a leather mask, it was enchanting and full of carved patterns in the wood that held it together. Their neck was visible beneath a dark huntsman jacket and baggy black shirt, their gloved hands cupped a jar of confections and a bottle of alcohol.

"So it seems that you are the real one, godt å bli kvitt," they said rather harshly. Hahah, they had probably approached one of his decoys or something… that idea wasn't helping Elliott, just making him think about the greeting that he had missed. Those cheeks were reddening into massive smudges of blush, he wasn't sure if it was embarrassment or relief. Bloodhound was standing there! right there, in front of him, and he couldn't get anything out of that ever so useful mouth of his. 

"Yeah, there are a lot of me- _ e's _ around, hah." He laughed, trying to save the crumbled sentence by turning it into the rehearsed line of Mirage. His hand rubbed the back of his neck in some sought comfort. 

"Yes, so I have noticed." Elliott laughed some more, they didn't even make a joke.

Bloodhound passed the gifts over and since Elliott couldn't particularly move, he had to hold on to them and act as if he didn't want to store everything away somewhere special. Apparently, Artur had kept them awake yesterday and they overslept through a nap. It sounded so casual coming out of somebody like Bloodhound, and Elliott had to remind himself that  _ they _ also did average-human things. Speculation was still there, he couldn't be the only one suffering from nightmares. Bloodhound was not one to shy away, so if he were to say anything about the subject, they would scold him. In the past, they would get angry and lecture Elliott on catching his unnecessary words, but what happened now that Elliott began overthinking everything before he blurted dumbness outward. At least he had improved, did they realise?

He didn't particularly try to even out his time with each legend. Elliott spoke with Renee and then with Pathfinder. There was still no update on the wedding, he assumed that it would happen after their team won. Pathfinder was as robotic as usual, which made sense, that smiling emoticon never escaping his screen. Bloodhound was also there, particularly when the trio were talking about their next meetup for practice. They lingered quietly, peppering their opinion and availability, Elliott glimmered towards them every time without fail, he probably looked dumb. 

It got to a point where whatever situation he was in, whether it was losing a hand wrestling competition against Octane or showing off his aiming skills by shooting rubber bullets at decoys, it seemed that they were around. He was suddenly aware, although it would make sense that they stuck with the crowd. And  _ yes, _ for anyone wondering, he managed to speak to them without blurting his words; And a  _ further _ assurance, he only felt like puking his guts out after he was left alone to simmer like marinating meat. They spoke about automobiles, the old kind and how to clean his rifles. He noticed how their hands grazed the pillows of the chairs and halfway through a conversation, Artur appeared out of nowhere to land on their arm. He itched his face awkwardly and grinned, that Bird was terrible, getting soft rubs and attention with an obsidian eye focused on him.

It was getting late. Looking out of the entrance, a glass window, the movement was slowing towards a halt. Just before those tiny hours, had he really survived this whole night? Everyone was gone, both staff and visitors. Elliott was tasked with telling his last visitor to leave, except he didn't want to, and that was dumb, because there was no way that Bloodhound was up for goofing around at this time of night let alone at all. The two had been speaking as Elliott exclaimed good-byes to strangers, he laughed at the way Makoa was pulling Octavio along. The duo switched through pleasant chitchat, but they seemed to get distracted. The voice in his head screamed that Elliott needed more time to make Bloodhound  _ actually _ like him, but he wasn't utilizing the hours which he already had. This was wrong and it could ruin everything, refresh their relationship. 

Bloodhound stood up with a sigh. He jumped when they appeared behind him, hands on his shoulders and gripping strongly. He thought that they would have been long gone by now. Elliott was just picking up cups, limping around like some lost Bambi now that his decoys had the intensity of steam. Just cleaning anything he could before the stench of alcohol filled the air, he could get through the rest tomorrow. In the blue light, Elliott tried his best to give off his usual tone.

"I feel the need to repay you, could you use any assistance?" Elliott wiggled his eyebrows and lips, cheeks a brew of red from false expectations, this was fine. He threw the last cups towards that automatic trash can, his companion asked for directions.

Unsurprisingly, Bloodhound's warmth was better when they were comfortable than when Elliott was covered in blood. They felt heavy and real, with arms full of muscle that he never received from the people that usually helped him up stairs. Of course, this was very far from being usual. If he thought about it, Bloodhound hadn't consumed anything, not one beer, even after he tried to consider their tastes. He was in a one-sided drunkenness, Leaning on Bloodhound and practically being pulled upwards. His cheeks were a sturdy shade of red that faded into his beard and tan, his neck and hands were hot, his breath steamy. 

Bloodhound smelt good, they grunted with each step. Last time he had sniffed at their collar, he ended up with a nosebleed, this time he leaned into the heat and didn't dare look up at that mask. He coughed and choked, but it was fine, he was just drunk and Bloodhound was probably counting on his Hanahaki being a victim of Renee's looks. 

He leaned on the wall near his door, the breeze outside flowing through his locks as he pulled that keychain of Bamboozle Figurines out again, arms wrapped in presents. His body had split from them like the magnets being broken, his hands leaving their hip without a second word. The right pick jingled and Elliott laughed at Bloodhound, because they had to help him fit it through the keyway. 

Elliott entered the estate, cold and uninhabited, but Bloodhound lingered near the exit. He looked them down, trying his hardest to hide it in the shade of the room.

"Thanks, you're a great friend, hahah-" he bit his lip, he couldn't say anything worse. His stomach hurt, lips a sore from biting. 

"Take care of yourself,"

"yep," Elliott leaned off of the doorframe, Bloodhound stepped away.

"Góða nótt, Elliott."

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I hope you enjoyed and please leave kudos ⭐


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